《The Forest of Stones》


 Of the Birth of Férchén and Falcho, and the Keen Gaze of the Star-Scholar

    Of the Birth of F¨¦rch¨¦n and Falcho, and the Keen Gaze of the Star-Scholar


    F¨¦rch¨¦n and Falcho were elven twins, alike as two droplets of warm rain in the Season of Drought. Their hair was black as raven''s wing, and their eyes glimmered blue as the petals of wood forget-me-nots. They came into the world on the first day of the Month of the Cypress, in the year 2223 of the Fifth Age. Their parents were M¨¦ra, a needleworker, and Fen, a wandering trader.


    In keeping with the custom of the Forest Folk, cypress trees were planted in honor of the boys'' birth. Yet the villagers saw the act as but a gesture, for they knew well that the climate of this corner of the S¨¦ras Land was ill-suited to such trees, and none had grown here for many a year. But to the wonder of all, the saplings took root. Old Salch¨¦, the village seeress ¡ª believed by some to know the hidden truths of nature better than any a druid ¡ª declared it a portent. She proclaimed that not only would the boys fall under the guardianship of the cypress, but they would also inherit its spirit: steadfastness, charm, and yearning for the everlasting.


    But M¨¦ra laughed at the words and replied lightly, "I put no faith in such fancies. The Lord of Trees has made trees to be trees, and my sons to be my sons. Each will be what he is, as he was meant to be, and nought more."


    Salch¨¦ shrugged, her pride stung, and muttered under her breath, "What can wanderers of the sea know of trees?"


    Perhaps there was some truth in her words, for M¨¦ra and Fen hailed from the coast. In their youth, they had dwelt long among the cliffs, dunes, and seaside forests of the tidecomers ¡ª a folk who found in the whisper of waves secrets far dearer than those murmured by the trees.


    Not long after the boys'' birth, Fen decided it was time to move on, for wandering traders never lingered in one place for long ¡ª such was the nature of their craft and their way of life. The children were strong, and so M¨¦ra agreed with her husband. With the coming of the new month, they left the village at dawn, faring south-west on foot to ensure they reached the warmer regions of S¨¦ras ere the snows set in, as was their custom.


    Old Salch¨¦ never learned whether her prophecy had held true, for she never saw the boys again. She passed away several years before the day M¨¦ra, Fen and their sons returned to the village, bringing with them a gentle breeze and the scent of herbs.


    "Come on, come all - taste, buy, there''s plenty for everyone!" Fen cried, spreading out bundles of dried herbs across the trunk of a fallen tree. A group of elves gathered on the other side, sniffing and sampling the wares, jostling and nudging each other in excitement. "F¨¦rch, bag these up - quickly now, quickly!"


    Beside Fen stood F¨¦rch¨¦n, no more than a boy of fourteen years*, his gaze wandering upward to the oak leaves trembling faintly on the thick branches high above, rather than to the herbs laid out before him. At his father''s sharp prompting, F¨¦rch reluctantly snapped out of his daydream. Brushing a strand of black hair from his brow and tucking it beneath his hat, he reached for a linen pouch and began stuffing it with nettle leaves as directed by the first eager customer.


    Where, by Likho, is Falcho? Why is it always me helping?, he thought, half in irritation, half in envy at whatever discoveries his brother might already be making in this strange birthplace of theirs ¡ª surely far more thrilling than haggling over herbs at a mossy tree trunk.


    Such musings were interrupted by a voice from the far side of the tree trunk, addressing his father:


    "Fen, is that you?"


    F¨¦rch lifted his head, curiosity sparking in his keen eyes. Before him stood an aged elf with a gnomish gaze, and a face as cragged and dry as the folds of ancient stone, pallid as bone in the grey light of the overcast evening. The elder was clad in a peculiar deep-navy cloak that reminded F¨¦rch¨¦n of the druidic robes he had once glimpsed in S¨¦n Ser¨¦n. Yet, unlike those, which bore the emblem of the Druid Council ¡ª interwoven boughs of all the monthly trees ¡ª this old man''s cloak was exquisitely adorned along its edges with golden embroidery of celestial constellations. They shone with such precision and beauty that they seemed to rival the imagined star-charts of sylphic libraries, which F¨¦rch¨¦n oft pictured in his mind''s eye.


    His father''s gaze also shifted to the stranger. Recognition lit Fen''s face, and he broke into a bright smile.


    "Fen!" the old man declared, almost with a chuckle. Skirting the roots of the fallen oak, he stepped to the other side of the trunk, spreading his arms wide to embrace Fen. "It''s good to see you again."


    He then turned his glimmering, torch-like yellow-gold eyes upon F¨¦rch¨¦n. "You must be Fen''s son, though you seem not to favour him much," he said, his gaze sharp and piercing as it lingered on the boy.


    Straightening instinctively with a trace of innate pride, F¨¦rch raised a brow and replied, "I am. My name is F¨¦rch¨¦n."


    The old man chuckled under his breath, as though F¨¦rch''s words struck him as particularly amusing, yet the gravity in his eyes did not fade.


    "And where is thy reflection in the mirror, F¨¦rch¨¦n, the Stormslayer?"


    Even if the usually sharp-witted elf-boy understood the true meaning behind this queer question, he was too struck by the presence of the elder ¡ª and bewildered by the peculiar title bestowed upon him ¡ª to answer at once. He glanced toward his father, who swiftly came to his aid.


    "You''ve not changed a bit, W¨¦lrod! Still confusing elven children with celestial bodies," Fen said with a laugh, though his face soon grew thoughtful as W¨¦lrod replied, "Have I mistaken you, then?"


    This elder remembers Father from his childhood,  F¨¦rch mused with growing curiosity.  Was Father here as a boy? And what star or planet did W¨¦lrod liken him to? What of    me? Oh, why did Falcho and I never find any star map ¡ª why?


    "I wasn''t exactly hard to get right," Fen merely said, ere turning to his son. "Where''s Falcho? You two are usually inseparable, but when it comes to it... My word!"


    F¨¦rch shrugged dramatically, trying to show that he neither knew Falcho''s whereabouts nor why his brother had vanished ¡ª and that he wished he did. Sometimes Falcho didn''t bother explaining himself, not even to F¨¦rch, which always stung and angered him. Yet he had never spoken of it to his brother, unsure even within himself why it mattered so much. Perhaps it was because Falcho''s secrecy stirred some vague unease, even fear.


    Most of the time, F¨¦rch¨¦n felt as though he and Falcho were as inseparable as twins could be, knowing everything about one another. But on days like this, it was quite the opposite. On days like this, F¨¦rch was certain he knew nothing of Falcho at all, and trying to understand him was like attempting to catch the wind in one''s hand.


    F¨¦rch¨¦n hated those days. He feared them, though he knew not why.


    <hr>


    Falcho did not return until nightfall, when the evening clouds had scattered across the sky and the moons began shining like lighthouses in S¨¦n Ser¨¦n. Their silver light bathed the clearing in the oakwood, where much of the village had gathered, bright enough that fireflies could take a well-earned rest from their work within the lanterns. The warm evening, typical of the Season of Drought, had tempted the Forest Folk to settle themselves upon roots and forest litter, listening intently to W¨¦lrod¡¯s marvellous tales while nibbling on dried moss pancakes.


    True to his nature, Falcho apologised politely to his father for his absence. Fen raised a stern brow at first but soon waved his hand dismissively, knowing ¡ª as always ¡ª that anger would accomplish nothing. M¨¦ra, however, the wandering boy charmed easily with a cornflower blossom, small yet large still in the hand of an elf-boy. With a graceful smile, he tucked it gently into her dark hair.


    He then perched himself on an oak root beside F¨¦rch¨¦n, nodding toward W¨¦lrod, who sat higher than anyone else upon the same fallen tree that Fen had earlier used as his trading post.


    "Who¡¯s that?" Falcho asked his brother, brushing yellow specks from the sleeve of his tunic. F¨¦rch recognised it at once as plantain pollen, the sort that overgrew the roadside.


    "If you hadn¡¯t been off wandering the thickets alone, you¡¯d know," F¨¦rch¨¦n retorted with a touch of scorn, raising his brow in a manner remarkably reminiscent of their father. "Where were you? What were you looking for by the road?"


    "This and that," Falcho replied lazily, leaning back on the sturdy oak branch behind him and gazing up into the dark depths of the leafy crown aloft. After a moment, however, he glanced back at F¨¦rch, amusement flickering in his eyes as he noticed his brother¡¯s still-sullen expression. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Oh, don¡¯t sulk now. Perhaps I¡¯ll tell you later... Is he a gnome?" He nodded towards W¨¦lrod with renewed curiosity.


    "Stop your chatter," F¨¦rch muttered impatiently. "W¨¦lrod¡¯s about to begin his tale."


    Indeed, the old man was already gesturing for silence, straightening up and settling himself more comfortably on the fallen tree trunk. His long, sleek hair, gleaming like true silver, fell softly against the deep blue of his robe, whilst his gnomish eyes burned like gold in a forge. The subtle light of night embraced him, suiting him better than anything else, for he seemed as much a part of it as the moons and stars themselves.


    The night sharpened W¨¦lrod¡¯s features, imbuing them with a grace and enchantment absent in the daylight ¡ª and absent too from every other gathered soul on the forest glade. Now, more than ever, he reminded F¨¦rch¨¦n of the druids of S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, dignified and steeped in mystery.


    As near-total silence fell over the glade, broken only by the gentle song of crickets, W¨¦lrod began his tale:


    Long, long ago, at the dawn of time, Master Oak had two children: a son and a daughter. The son¡¯s hair was woven from oak leaves, but unlike the trees, he shunned the brightness of the sun¡¯s rays. Pale and taciturn, he spent his days in the half-light of a goldsmith¡¯s workshop, melting gold and glass in his crucibles. His sister, utterly unlike him, was sometimes called Meadow, for she carried within her all the life and joy of that verdant realm. She danced across it from dawn till dusk, her eyes gleaming with the hues of wildflowers, and she wore a gown fashioned from their petals.


    Despite their differences, the brother dearly loved his sister, and she him. In the evenings, they would sit together upon a great stone at the edge of the meadow and forest, content and entwined, while the gentle light of the Darksome Sage watched over their tranquil souls.


    But one day, wicked Likho seized the girl, intent on robbing her of both joy and life. She fled into the shadowy depths of the ferns, unwilling to see anyone ¡ª not her father, nor her beloved brother. Her colourful skirt was replaced by the somber fronds of the ferns.


    Unable to bear her sorrow, the brother toiled day and night in his workshop until he crafted a crystal that captured the very light of life for his sister. It was a work of greatness ¡ª unmatched before or since ¡ª but also of arrogance and folly. For no being save the Lord of Trees himself holds dominion over the light of life, and none can wield it. The brother did not return life to his sister but instead trapped it in her reflection within a mirror. There it became a thing both mighty and strange, but cold and lifeless as ice.


    When he realised the error of his creation, and that he could do nothing more for her, despair and fury overtook him. In his madness, he shattered the mirror into five shards and cursed all life, transforming himself into Likho.


    In time, Master Oak discovered four fragments of the mirror in the workshop. Recognising their perilous power, he entrusted each to the vigilant care of the Elemental Wardens. The tidecomers were to mingle theirs with the foam of the sea, the sylphs to scatter theirs upon mountain winds, the gnomes to hide theirs deep within underground labyrinths, and the dragons to melt theirs in volcanic lava. Master Oak warned them never to dare wield such power.


    As for the fifth shard, no one knows what became of it. For a time, whispers rustled through the trees that the girl had taken the shard, pressed it to her heart, and returned with it to the shadow of the ferns. That tale, however, soon faded into legend ¡ª like the whole of this story. Yet some still believe that the girl may be seen wandering amidst the fern thickets, beautiful as a flower.


    And so, to this very day, she is called the Fern Flower.


    When W¨¦lrod finished his tale, no one spoke for a while. At last, Falcho voiced the very question that had been circling in F¨¦rch¨¦n¡¯s mind:


    "What would happen if someone were to reunite those shards? Would he uncover the secret of the light that the brother discovered?"


    The old man did not answer immediately. Instead, he fixed Falcho with his piercing gaze, sharp as that of a bird of prey. F¨¦rch thought that he himself would have already squirmed under the searing weight of such a stare, but Falcho remained completely unshaken. He met it with serene composure, his pale, porcelain face ¡ª made even paler by the moonlight ¡ª glimmering like a flawless diamond, adorned with a subtle, captivating smile.


    He¡¯s always perfect,  F¨¦rch thought suddenly.  Perfect Falcho.


    "Not impossible," W¨¦lrod at last replied. "Though no one knows for certain. Druid Nyre, one of the most esteemed sylph scholars, once believed that whoever reunites the shards of the mirror would not only possess the secret of the light of life but also gain dominion over the elements. Yet woe betide the one who dares to achieve such a thing."


    <hr>


    The crickets were still playing their songs in the grasses, filling the warm, dry night air, as F¨¦rch¨¦n leaned his elbows against the windowsill of the house they had taken for their short stay in the village. He rested his chin on his hands, smiling as he gazed into the darkness of the oak wood, listening to that strange, enchanting music of insects. Tendrils of forest plants creeping into the room brushed his face now and then.


    Their father never liked living high up in the trees like most of the Forest Folk. Wherever they travelled, he always chose hollowed-out trunks near the base of trees or dwellings carved beneath sprawling roots. Mother oft laughed at this peculiar, gnomish habit of his to live close to the earth, though she never opposed him. And so now they slept in the hollowed-out trunk of a great oak, M¨¦ra and Fen below, whilst F¨¦rch and Falcho had their quarters on an inner floor built higher inside the tree.


    At last, F¨¦rch tore his gaze from the night-shrouded forest and turned towards Falcho. The dim glow of a candle in its holder cast flickering light over his brother''s lean figure. Falcho sat comfortably against the inner wall of the tree, arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out on his bed, which was draped with a blanket woven from oak leaves. His eyes were blissfully half-closed, and a smile lingered on his lips ¡ª his thoughts must have been dwelling on something pleasant.


    "What are you thinking about?" F¨¦rch¨¦n asked.


    "The same as you, sweet brother," Falcho replied without opening his eyes or moving an inch.


    They both fell silent again. F¨¦rch smiled to himself, wider this time, and turned back to the window.  About finding those shards and putting them back together,  he mused dreamily.


    Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and a faint breeze carried the hollow sound into their room. F¨¦rch¨¦n started.  If it hoots again, we¡¯ll succeed,  a sudden, whimsical thought crossed his mind. He waited with growing impatience, straining to hear. Whenas the owl called out once more, his heart fluttered with innocent, childlike joy.


    Yet F¨¦rch had something else on his mind that warm night ¡ª both in that moment and later, when he lay in bed, long after even the crickets had fallen silent. He kept thinking how much he wanted to speak with W¨¦lrod once more ere they set off on their journey again. The thought clung stubbornly to his mind, refusing to let go, and because of it, F¨¦rch¨¦n might not sleep. In the stillness of the room, he listened to the breathing ¡ª his own and Falcho¡¯s ¡ª equally restless and quickened, that meant his brother was awake as well. Yet they said nought to each other until morning.


    W¨¦lrod didn¡¯t appear in the village for several days, and though F¨¦rch learned where the elder lived, he lacked the courage to visit without a proper reason. Eventually, however, the Tree Masters granted the young elf''s wish, and an opportunity arose. On the eve of their departure, Fen asked F¨¦rch¨¦n to take a small pouch of farewell gifts to W¨¦lrod that evening. F¨¦rch eagerly agreed, and as soon as they had finished supper and the sun slipped behind the treetops, beginning its slow descent westward, he grabbed the pouch and dashed through the oak wood towards its edge, beyond the village.


    There, at the border where forest met meadow, birches stood tall, their bases encircled by lupins and slender wild grasses. Wooden steps spiralled upwards around the thickest and tallest of the birches. F¨¦rch raced up them, skipping two or three at a time, and only paused when he reached the balcony outside W¨¦lrod¡¯s home, partially bathed in the fading light of the setting sun.


    Yet W¨¦lrod was not home, and disappointment tugged at F¨¦rch¡¯s heart as he imagined the elder might have wandered far from his tree for the entire night, leaving no chance for the boy to see him before their departure. His gloom lifted, however, whenas he glanced upwards through the curtain of delicate birch branches and spotted a wooden platform several limbs above. His sharp elven ears caught the faint sound of footsteps on it.


    Looking around and finding no further staircase, F¨¦rch began climbing the trunk itself, marvelling inwardly at the elder¡¯s nimbleness, for surely W¨¦lrod must have reached the terrace the very same way.


    When he reached the top, W¨¦lrod sat upon the edge of the terrace, his legs dangling in the air, his back turned to the boy. F¨¦rch was thus taken aback as the elder greeted him by name.


    ¡°How did you know it was me?¡± he asked.


    W¨¦lrod chuckled softly and, without turning around, replied, ¡°I knew you by your steps. Every pair of footsteps is different. You and your brother are so alike, yet your steps couldn¡¯t be more unlike. Falcho¡¯s tread is strong and sure, while yours is quick and restless, as though you are ever uncertain which way to go.¡±


    F¨¦rch frowned; W¨¦lrod¡¯s words did not sit well with him. After all, he knew what he wanted just as much as Falcho did. His pride urged him to say as much, but he held his tongue.


    ¡°Father asked me to bring you a parting gift,¡± he said instead.


    ¡°Thank your father for me,¡± W¨¦lrod replied. ¡°Now set the gift on the table and come here.¡±


    Tucking a stray lock of hair beneath his hat, F¨¦rch laid the pouch where the elder had bid him, then made his way to W¨¦lrod¡¯s side. He sat down beside him, letting his legs hang freely over the edge.


    From this perch ¡®mongst the branches, a wondrous view unfolded ¡ª one where the deep blue of twilight mingled with the golden-orange glow of the setting sun.


    Soon the stars shall kindle like the flames of candles,  thought F¨¦rch¨¦n, gazing up at the heavens in silent wonder. The thought stirred a sudden question within him.


    ¡°They say in the village that you read the future in the stars almost as well as the sylph scholars. Is it true? Can you truly do that?¡± He turned his gaze to W¨¦lrod, a feverish curiosity now gleaming in his eyes.


    The elder laughed once more.


    ¡°Even a fool may read the stars if he stares at them long enough over the course of many decades.¡±


    F¨¦rch looked back up at the sky, pondering his next question. For a while, he hesitated, then surprised himself by not asking the thing that had consumed his thoughts for days ¡ª his own future. He had longed so desperately for W¨¦lrod to speak of it, yet now, a sudden trepidation took hold of him. He realised he had no wish to know his fate ere it came to pass. So instead, he asked something else entirely:


    ¡°Is everything written in stars bound to come true?¡±


    ¡°Nay,¡± W¨¦lrod replied, his smile enigmatic. ¡°For nought is certain in the stars. From them, one may glean nought but murky inklings, as hazy as morning mist. It is not the stars, but we ourselves who shape our destinies, young F¨¦rch¨¦n. You shall come to know this for yourself one day.¡±


    <hr>


    *The elves of this tale live for nigh a thousand years, their age reckoned differently from that of humans. They come of age more slowly than humankind.

 1. The Sorcerer of Nan Farlas

    Chapter 1


    The Sorcerer of Nan Farlas


    ¡ª  The Year 2558  ¡ª


    Little light ever reached the depths of Nan Farlas. The island lay cloaked in the mists that drifted over the lake, whilst a dense grove of alders veiled the ruined tower. Beneath the tower, the dungeons and the endless dragon labyrinths were shrouded by stone walls and clay-bound earth. Yet there was a narrow fissure in the ancient masonry through which, on moonlit nights, a slender beam of silver light would slip into the gloom below. Habel had discovered it long years past, and he would oft gaze through it at the evening sky ¡ª especially when he tarried in the beloved shadows, reluctant to heed the Sorcerer¡¯s summons.


    This evening, the heavens glimmered with a rich, dark blue, and even the Darksome Sage was swathed in sapphire radiance, as though clad in some ceremonial druidic cloak of airy silk. Habel drew near to the wall, pressing his upturned nose close to the narrow crack. The nocturnal light caught in his sylph eyes, turning them for a moment an even deeper shade of navy than usual.


    Lowering his gaze, he looked upon a swirling host of bats, darting wildly through the air, flitting in and out of the tower¡¯s ruins in a frenzied, restless dance.


    Black, blind fools    ,  Habel thought wearily, wrapping himself more tightly in his own wing. He scarcely knew whether the thought was aimed at the bats or at himself. Yet he had no time to ponder it further, for a call reached his ears ¡ª a second cry, tinged now with impatience. Muffled by stone, it echoed down through the silent maze of corridors: ¡°Habel!¡±


    The sylph grimaced. He despised everything about the Sorcerer ¡ª save for his voice. That he could never bring himself to hate: dark and enchanted, it flowed over the Last Dragon Isle like a soothing song drifting above a forest marsh. It crept unbidden into the cold hollows of Habel¡¯s indifferent heart, stirring a warmth long buried, a warmth as fleeting as it was cruel. In that brief moment, the Child of Eternal Night felt a flicker of something perilously close to joy.


    The Sorcerer, of course, knew precisely what he was doing. Joyful memories were torment for Habel, burning like the dragon-fire of that ill-fated day. The instant urge to flee from them bound him to the Sorcerer¡¯s shadow more tightly than any chain. Even now a shudder ran through his slender frame, as if his body sought to shake off every last trace of those treacherous recollections. He rubbed his hollowed eyes with the back of his webbed hand, seized a torch from the wall, and trudged up the narrow, stone-hewn stairs.


    Habel had served the Sorcerer for decades now, though he remembered nothing of the time whenas his master had first rebuilt Nan Farlas from its ancient ashes, fashioning it anew as his stronghold. Nor did he know what had reduced the place once more to ruin ¡ª the desolation it yet remained. Even Hercho, the Sorcerer¡¯s wolfish companion, seemed not to know the truth, though he sometimes spoke of a mighty tower clad in moss, where alder branches crept through shattered windows, and of the mysterious Lady of the Alders, fair as moonlit night, who wove threads finer, whiter, and more luminous than any spider¡¯s silk.


    Such tales were among the few things that Habel had never grown indifferent to. From the moment he had first learned the wolf-speech of Hercho, early in his service to the Sorcerer, he had listened with a childlike eagerness, though he never betrayed this outwardly ¡ª and scarcely admitted it even to himself.


    Emerging at last from the depths to the surface, Habel was struck by a fierce wind sweeping in from the lake, howling hollowly through the shattered windows of the tower. The gust cut through him like a blade, but he paid it no heed. Not so much as a shiver passed through him as he began to ascend further up the vast stairway, whose steps, crafted by the hands of the trees, were far too large for his slight sylph feet.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Some steps were laid with stones, now flecked with moss and sprouting slender blades of grass between their cracks. Others were formed from the living boughs of the alders that entwined themselves with the tower ¡ª those he loathed most of all. Whenas forced to tread upon them, his feet, ill-suited for branch-walking unlike those of the elves, would slip upon the damp, slick bark as though he stood on ice.


    Flying is yet a blessed thing, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth, absently massaging the brittle edge of his once broken wing.


    At last, he surmounted the final step and found himself within what remained the highest enclosed floor since the tower¡¯s ruinous fall. He drew a deep breath, his gaze drifting once more to the night sky through a gaping window. Beyond the slender gap between alder branches, the Chestnut Bridge stretched forth, linking Nan Farlas to the foothills of the Moonlit Mountains, their silvery peaks gleaming like sword-blades under the faint glow of the Misty Wanderer. The bridge''s sprawling roots rose from the lake''s edge, arcing directly onto the courtyard of a hidden fortress nestled ''mongst the rocky crags ¡ª a fortress as vast and formidable as the tower upon the isle, shimmering faintly blue in the moon''s misty glow.


    ¡°Habel!¡±


    The third summons rang out, edged with sharper impatience. One unacquainted with the Sorcerer of Nan Farlas might not have noticed it at all. Whatever emotions he harboured, the Sorcerer remained ever composed, restrained, and dignified.


    But Habel had learned to discern the subtleties of his master''s voice with the precision of a weaver stitching intricate patterns of vibrant threads. He knew all too well that the Sorcerer''s wrath was worse than the bite of dragon''s fangs, even if it was delivered with a courteous smile upon his lips.


    The workshop lay steeped in dim half-light and hushed silence as Habel entered. At first, he did not see the Sorcerer. Only a curt, rough ¡°You are here¡± drew his gaze upward to a short wooden stairway, which merged with an alder bough leading to a nearby hollow ¡ª the workshop¡¯s hidden backroom.


    The Sorcerer paused for a moment upon the bough, still as a statue, before descending with measured steps. Habel watched him impassively, as the tall figure slowly emerged from the shadowy gloom, as though rising from a black mist. The pale glow of a single lantern crept ever higher across the folds of his emerald silk mantle.


    Paying no heed to Habel, as though he were not there at all, the Sorcerer strode to a crucible suspended above the firepit of a broad, clay hearth and resumed his work. The sylph clasped his hands behind his back and stood motionless, like a statue of stone, waiting to see what would unfold.


    ¡°Matter,¡± the Sorcerer intoned after a long pause, not so much as glancing at his sylph servant, his focus fixed entirely on stirring the contents of the crucible with a slender rod. Though this was but a simple task, one he must have performed countless times, he carried it out with near-reverence. ¡°What a marvellous thing ¡ª matter. I have ever held it in high regard.¡±


    ¡°You do not linger here through the night for the love of matter, master wizard,¡± Habel said quietly as he stepped closer to the hearth, catching the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his master¡¯s lips. His own soft voice echoed strangely loud in his ears, and for a fleeting moment, he regretted his words, fearing the punishment that might soon follow.


    Ere the Sorcerer could respond, the liquid in the crucible boiled suddenly and spat forth a plume of orange-hued vapour. The mist thickened swiftly, coalescing with each passing second until it formed a faint, ethereal cloud hovering above the cauldron. Habel''s bulging, flashy eyes widened even further in sudden alarm. For some inexplicable reason, the thought struck him that the cloud would ignite into a blaze of flames.


    Yet no such thing came to pass. The sylph quickly steadied himself, silently rebuking his own foolishness.


    Even in the Sorcerer¡¯s workshop, vapour did not turn to flame on a whim - unless by the force of illusion.


    ¡°No,¡± the Sorcerer at last said, laughing mockingly. Habel could not tell whether the laugh was directed at his own words or at the sylph¡¯s momentary display of fear. ¡°Not for the love of matter.¡±


    The vapour sank back into the liquid as swiftly and inexplicably as it had risen. Habel smirked crookedly into the depths of the crucible, lifting one corner of his clenched lips.  Cursed colour!


    The liquid boiled fiercely once more, as though chiding its master for slowing the rhythm of the rod, which he ought not to have done. The Sorcerer¡¯s hand quickened its pace, and his fair, radiant face grew solemn, hardening for a moment into silent contemplation.


    ¡°Are you a skilled thief, Habel?¡± he asked at length, his voice now cold and piercing as the echo from the depths of a well.


    Habel knew full well this was not a question for which the Sorcerer sought an answer. He merely shifted his weight from foot to foot and stood waiting, still and expectant, for his task to be given.


    ¡°You shall steal something for me,¡± the Sorcerer commanded. ¡°An elf-boy.¡±

 2. Into the Mist part 1

    Chapter 2


    Into the Mist


    - Part the First -


    The thunderous roar of the waterfall filled the air, unsettling a swallow that flitted nervously before landing upon the right bank of G¨¦rlod. There, in the shade of a towering beech with a bluish trunk, she perched near a stone bridge that all but vanished into thick, swirling clouds of mist above the river¡¯s waters.


    Al slid nimbly from the bird¡¯s back and ran a hand over her sleek wing in gratitude for the shared journey. With a hurried flutter, the swallow soared back into the air. The elf-boy stood for a while, watching her tiny form grow ever smaller in the distance.


    She¡¯s just like Jay,  he thought suddenly, surprised by the notion.  Delicate and skittish.


    A sharp gust from the northwest sliced through him like an icy shard, and Al pulled his father¡¯s woollen cloak tighter about his frame. He had little love for the cold; it brought forth memories he had long thought buried.


    Jay.


    Adjusting the bundle and bow on his back, he set off toward the bridge. It was a noble structure, simple yet weighty in its sturdy gnomish craftsmanship. Its usual gleaming whiteness ¡ª like the froth of waterfall spray ¡ª was dulled that day by the clammy grey haze of mist and the gathering gloom of a prematurely darkening sky, such as ofttimes befell the Season of Rains.


    The few townsfolk and wandering travellers who still crossed the river emerged from the fog suddenly, like moths flitting from the blinding glare of a lantern. Even Al¡¯s keen eyes discerned their forms only at the last possible moment amidst the damp vapours. Thus, it was the sharp command ¡°Halt!¡± that reached his ears ere his gaze could catch sight of who had issued it.


    Startled, Al stopped in wary anticipation, his eyes darting toward the left parapet whence the voice had come. Soon enough, he beheld a tall guard clad in black iron armour and helm, his grey woollen cloak embroidered with the sigil of the Master of Stones.


    Gnomes  , Al laughed inwardly.  They see through mist as wolves through darkness. And since when do they armour themselves as if for an interstellar war?


    The guard, it seemed, did not share his amusement. As he strode up to Al, his gaze was dour, near to wrathful.


    "Who are you, and what do you seek here?"


    "Since when may travellers not freely come inside the Gates in search of lodging?" Al returned, arching his brow with an air of disdain.


    "Elves rarely tread upon our lands. And when they do, their intentions have grown less friendly of late," the guard replied, his eyes raking Al from his boots to the tip of his willow-embroidered hat. "Speak now ¡ª who art thou?"


    A mischievous glint flickered in Al¡¯s eyes as he reached beneath the folds of his cloak. From an inner pocket, he drew forth a tightly rolled missive. The seal of the Druid Council, wrought from emerald-hued beeswax, gleamed nobly even in the murk of mist and waning daylight.


    "I am Alg¨¦n, son of Al¨¦n the bard and Pola the meadow dancer. I come as envoy to the Master of Stones Ferlo, under command and by decree of the High Druid of the Eastern Peninsula, Nol," he declared.


    The guard¡¯s gaze shifted from the seal to Al''s face. To the boy¡¯s surprise, the man¡¯s stern expression softened into a crooked, oddly indulgent smile. There was something in it that instantly unsettled Al, rekindling his wariness anew.


    "You are an envoy, bearing the seal of the Council, so I must let you pass," said the guard. "Yet your news is stale. Master Ferlo passed with the waning of the Chestnut Month, and two weeks ago the Stone Sages chose a new Master."


    "Who?" asked Al, his brow furrowing. But before the guard could reply, the boy grasped what had earlier puzzled him.  So that''s why the guards, the armour, the spears...


    "Gerod," the guard said, more to confirm Al''s guess than to inform him.


    The thought struck Al''s mind like a war-drum:  I''m too late. Gerod will not even hear me out, and a quarrel with the Druids will suit him just fine.


    The rush of the waterfall grew louder in his ears, swelling into the roar of collapsing walls. The mist before his eyes thickened and darkened, twisting into graphite swirls of smoke.


    He only came to himself when the guard''s question cut through his vision: The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "What do you hide beneath that cloak?"


    The vision dissolved; torchlight replaced again by the wary glint in the gnome''s yellow eyes. Al''s wit, ever nimble, returned as if it had never faltered.


    "A secret weapon," he quipped.  Fit to plunder alone Grod G¨¦rlod, the Capital of Thieves,  he finished inwardly, whilst reaching beneath his cloak to produce a lute.


    The guard smirked faintly.


    "Well then, sage bard, may your songs soften Gerod¡¯s heart ¡ª for your sake and for the tidings you bear. But mark my words ¡ª and keep your guard up. They may greet you less kindly at the gates of the Master¡¯s Grotto than I have here."


    <hr>


    The bridge ended at a broad, flat shelf of rock, serving as the entry courtyard to the city. As Al set foot upon it, the massive gates loomed out of the mist like the gaping maw of a dragon. The raised portcullis, which usually gleamed silver-bright like the shimmering waves of G¨¦rlod, was now shrouded in the gloom of the approaching dusk, its beech-leaf wroughtwork fading like the real branches during the waning days of the Oak Month.


    The Gates of G¨¦rlod,  Al mused, lifting his gaze to the iron adornments of the portcullis. They were beautiful, though wrought as if from some vast sorrow. They had always fascinated him on his visits to the gnomish capital ¡ª much like the sorrow itself, a thing he neither knew nor understood, merely glimpsed sometimes in his bardic imaginings.


    Despite the wary glances cast his way, none of the guards halted him as he passed beneath the gateway, and soon Al stood within the city.


    Grod G¨¦rlod was a vast cavern, hewn long ago by the relentless waters of the Silver River. Its countless nooks and crannies harboured thousands of gnomish dwellings. Through the cavern¡¯s heart wound the city''s main thoroughfare, twisting like a serpent of amber hue between subterranean lakes and at times arching above them, transforming into humped bridges with ornate balustrades. Alongside the road, lanterns grew from stalagmites, unevenly spaced and shaped like poppies. Within their blossoms, cosmic crystals caught the light filtering through the city''s cracks from the sun and moons, casting a dim but enchanting radiance over the cavern.


    After walking several yards*, Al paused beneath one of these lanterns, at a point where the road rose high above the cavern floor. From here, the view of the city''s other quarters unfolded before him. The bustle of foot traffic had grown thicker, prompting Al to pull up his hood ¡ª a common enough sight in this city of nocturnal ways and shadowed alleys, drawing far less attention than his distinctly elf-like features. Adjusting his bundle and leaning against the balustrade, he cast his gaze downward toward a limestone plateau stretching above the shimmering violet waters of a nearby lake.


    There, upon the forecourt of the entrance to the Master¡¯s and the Stone Sages'' dwelling, hidden behind a curtain of ornate draperies, sprawled the gnomish market ¡ª a veritable mine of the city''s murmurs, rumours and moods. Al smiled faintly to himself. At this hour, the hum from that place was like the drone of a beehive, growing only louder in his keen ears as he turned left along the main road and began descending towards it.


    The merchant stalls burst with colour and fragrance, and Al suddenly realised that he had eaten nothing since morning, when he and the swallow had set forth from the sandy bluffs of the swallow settlement. He reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, fingers seeking out a coin. Tossing it carelessly in his palm a few times, he pulled his hood snugly over his head and melted into the bustling throng like a shadow.


    As he had expected, much was being whispered about Gerod''s bold schemes for complete independence from the Council¡¯s authority, and the looming spectre of war ¡ª but nought beyond what Al had already deduced himself. Only one conversation caught his attention for longer. He lingered by a baker¡¯s stall, listening keenly as an elder gnome in an unfastened copper-hued doublet spoke to a younger, ruddy-haired one clad in a tattered cloak.


    ¡°Nol won¡¯t suffer such an insult,¡± the elder declared. ¡°I saw him once, many cosmic circuits agone, as he came to the Gates to see old Ferlo. Rode in on a black raven, with a cloak blue and gleaming like cobalt. A true sylph-king from the land of ice, and proud as a sylph too, though he''s nought but an elven druid, for all that they say he¡¯s of elf blood¡­ Mark my words, there¡¯ll be war out of this.¡±


    ¡°Blast it all, to the Likho with it!¡± spat the ruddy-haired one in fury. ¡°For some cursed Fortress, to tangle in war with the Forest Folk and their druids? May Gerod be damned! Ferlo may''ve been a doddering old puppet, but at least there was peace under him¡­¡±


    Here he hesitated, seemingly lost in thought, calculating something in his mind, ere speaking in a calmer, hushed tone:


    ¡°But tell me, sage birder, you who know so much, who¡¯ve seen so many things and hold secrets aplenty ¡ª what  is  it about that Fortress?¡±


    ¡°Ah, who¡¯s to say?¡± The older gnome shrugged. ¡°Folk talk differently, most of it making no sense at all. The best I can reckon is that there''s some ancient secret hidden within, from the time of the very first Master, N¨¦lchod ¡ª a key, they say, to great power and vast riches. And supposedly, a dragon guards it, with eyes in which a man can see himself reflected¡­ But that part smells like hogwash to me.¡±


    At the mention of ¡°riches¡± the ruddy-haired gnome¡¯s narrow eyes gleamed with curiosity and greed. He looked as though he wanted to press further, to wheedle out more about the matter, but just then his gaze shifted and landed on Al, who stood nearby. Their eyes met briefly, and the ruddy one¡¯s face tensed as he strained to make out what lay beneath the folds of the hood.


    ¡°And what are  you  gawping at?¡± he snarled.


    Al smirked.


    ¡°Buying something, masters, or just loitering about, taking up space at the stall?¡±


    ¡°None of your business, stray,¡± growled the ruddy gnome, feigning menace, though his eyes glinted uneasily.


    Your tongue¡¯s too long, gnomish scoundrel, far too long,  Al mused, still smiling to himself. Throwing curses at whoever you will ¡ª when the Gates are crawling with Gerod¡¯s spies.


    ¡°Hey!¡± The stallholder barked from behind his counter of bread. ¡°No brawling near my wares, y¡¯hear?¡±


    The elder gnome, the birder, raised a hand towards the stallholder in a gesture of reassurance.


    ¡°Peace, baker. We¡¯ll take our leave ¡ª rightly said, lingering here without purpose does no good. Come, Osgod, it¡¯s time we were off.¡±


    The ruddy-haired Osgod shot Al one last baleful glance but, without further quarrel, followed obediently after the birder. Al awhile watched them go, until the baker¡¯s voice drew his attention.


    ¡°What¡¯ll it be?¡±


    Al turned towards the stall. The baker¡¯s brown eyes, as two hazelnuts, regarded him with weary indifference. Al fished a coin from his pocket and placed it upon the counter.


    ¡°A sweet crescent roll. And a pumpkin seed.¡±


    Dragon,  the birder¡¯s words echoed in his mind as he chewed the roll, ambling slowly towards the gate that led to the Master¡¯s Grotto.  With eyes in which one can see himself reflected...


    <hr>


    * This pertains to human yards ¡ª one yard measures just over 90 centimetres.

 2. Into the Mist part 2

    Chapter 2


    Into the Mist


    -Part the Second-


    He clasped his hands behind his back. Unease once more stirred within his heart, but Al hid it beneath a smile as the guard swung open the gates to Gerod¡¯s Great Hall. The boy stepped inside, and the doors crashed shut behind him with a thunderous clang.


    The cavern seemed darker than it had been under Ferlo¡¯s rule. Only a few splinters of beechwood torches cast faint flickers of light, each mounted on a stalagnate surrounding the dais where the council bench stood. At the far end, upon the Master¡¯s seat ¡ª whose back sprouted iron poppies like flowers from fertile soil, with stems and leaves twisting along the armrests ¡ª sat Gerod. A nightingale perched upon one of the iron vines, pecking at its wing, whilst Gerod gently stroked the bird¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Master Gerod!¡± Al gave a slight bow as he reached the dais.


    Only then did Gerod, a bold smile playing on his lips, turn his gaze upon the elf. He was not yet old; his black eyes gleamed with a fiery, almost youthful fervour. Al couldn¡¯t help but compare the gnomish Master to Nol, and the thought of how utterly unlike each other they were nearly amused him. Nol was like a glacier, cold and unmoving. Gerod, by contrast, was all fire, his heart¡¯s impetuousness poorly veiled and barely contained.


    ¡°The Willow Bard,¡± said Gerod, not taking his eyes off Al. He gestured towards a seat at the bench. ¡°I once even had a liking for your songs.¡±


    Al stepped onto the dais and, standing beside the bench, reached once more beneath his cloak to draw forth the parchment bearing the Council¡¯s seal. Handing it to Gerod, he began to speak:


    ¡°In the name of¨C¡±


    Yet Gerod cut him off at once, casting the document onto a side table hewn from a thick stalagmite.


    ¡°Enough! Spare me your formalities and that scrap of parchment. I know well enough why you¡¯ve come, and I shall not waste time on such trifles. Sit yourself down! I¡¯ve seen Ferlo speak with you as an equal, and you used words then far different from the stiff language of a Council envoy. So speak likewise with me, if you¡¯ve anything worth saying!¡±


    The nightingale trilled briefly, flapped its wings, and took flight. Al¡¯s gaze followed it as it darted through the window and was swallowed by the black depths of the night. A faint, nigh imperceptible smile flickered on the elf''s lips as he lowered himself slowly onto the seat by the bench. The chair¡¯s armrests stretched outward like bare beech branches. Al rested his hands upon them comfortably, waiting in silence for Gerod to speak further.


    The gnomish Master clapped his hands, summoning a servant who appeared from nowhere, clad in a stone-grey tunic trimmed with orange braid.


    ¡°Bring blackberry wine,¡± commanded Gerod. The servant bowed briskly and vanished as swiftly as he had come. Gerod¡¯s eyes turned back to Al.


    ¡°Well then, woodland poet? You did not come to speak with me but with Ferlo. As for me¡± ¡ª he laughed, his eyes gleaming like glowing coals ¡ª ¡°Nol would have sent no more than a bird, carrying a scolding letter fit for a wayward child. That¡¯s what he willed Ferlo to do, didn¡¯t he? Rein me in. But that shall not be. I will not yield the Fortress. Perhaps I did rebel against Ferlo and your Council, but the Stone Sages stood by me, and it is I who am now Master. What say you to that?¡±


    Al raised his brows. As he had easily foreseen, Gerod was toying with his presence as though he were a worthless plaything. Whatever he said would soon enough be cast out alongside him through the great gates of the grotto. He might well have considered his duty as envoy fulfilled, rising to offer his farewell bow even now ¡ª were it not for that bard¡¯s curiosity, stubborn as ivy, which bound him to the beechwood chair until he was driven from it. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°The Fortress is subject not only to the Council,¡± he said, casting a brief glance at the servant who had just returned with a jug of wine and was now pouring it into earthen cups, ¡°but through the High Druid, also to the Masters of the Trees. By claiming the Fortress for your own, you stand not only against the Council but against the law of the Trees.¡±


    ¡°The Fortress,¡± Gerod snorted, ¡°was wrought by gnomes. On gnomish lands, and by gnomish hands alone shall it be ruled. The law of the Trees... You repeat Nol¡¯s words as though they were your own songs. Oh aye, you speak well, I grant you that ¡ª I¡¯ve heard as much before. But...¡±


    He fell silent, lifting his cup and gazing into the deep navy surface of the wine as though it were a mirror. After a moment, he continued, more softly, a faint smile curling his lips as he fixed Al once more with his gaze:


    ¡°But tell me, willow whelp ¡ª do you even know what lies within that Fortress?¡±


    The question caught Al off guard more than he would have expected, and ere he could conceal his surprise, it must have flashed across his face, for Gerod laughed aloud.


    ¡°You¡¯ve not the faintest inkling,¡± he said, swirling his cup so that the wine trembled and shimmered. He took a slow, deliberate sip before adding, ¡°What lies within is enough to grind your law of the Trees to dust.¡±


    Al offered no reply. He chose instead to weather the silence, awaiting Gerod¡¯s next words. For a fleeting moment, he wandered through the labyrinth of his own thoughts, hoping in vain for an answer to the Master¡¯s question. Yet none came ¡ª visions never heeded summons; that much he had long understood. All he had was the memory of the birder''s words from the market, but they were vague and worthless, too insubstantial to lead him anywhere.  ¡°Some ancient secret. A key to great power and vast riches.¡±


    He hardly knew himself why the Fortress had begun to pique his interest, and inwardly he laughed at his own curiosity. He had no fondness for riddles or ancient tales cloaked in the dust of centuries. He certainly had no intention of composing songs about it, and politics concerned him only insofar as was absolutely necessary.


    As they sat in silence, the darkness at the far end of the hall suddenly stirred, rustling like branches in a midnight wood. Ignoring Gerod¡¯s unwavering gaze, Al frowned, straining to discern the source of the unexpected movement and sound.


    Then, from the shadows where the rustling had emerged, light flickered into being. A figure, wholly cloaked in folds of hood and mantle, knelt beside an open hearth, coaxing a fledgling fire. At first frail and hesitant, the flames grew bolder with each passing moment, their amber tongues stretching skyward with newfound courage.


    Al''s gaze fastened upon the quivering tongues of flame, golden-yellow like the petals of a rudbeckia. The longer he stared, the more they seemed to swell and stretch before his eyes, till at last they appeared to consume the cloaked figure entirely. The being began to hover half a yard above the ground, glowing like a firefly within a lantern. Al¡¯s heart thudded wildly in response to the vision, and he barely caught Gerod''s quiet words:


    "Tell me, bard... if something precious, something your soul has always craved, suddenly fell into your hands ¡ª would you not sacrifice all to keep it?"


    He no longer smiled; his eyes gleamed strangely now, touched with a flicker of fear.


    He''s afraid of    me,  Al realised, still somewhat dazed by his vision. His gaze shifted back to Gerod.  Of course... he feared me once before, back when I was just a child.  The memory of their first meeting flashed through his mind.  The Master of Stone, afraid of a bard''s visions.


    Or of what I might glimpse within them.


    "I don''t know," he answered truthfully. He silently cursed that honesty as he slowly steadied himself once more.


    Gerod let out a laugh, as though relieved.


    "What sort of bard are you, knowing so little of so much? Your elven trees must be growing ever feebler if they bear none better than you."


    Al arched a brow, smiling slightly.


    "The better ones bow to the Masters of the Trees, not to mere rebels."


    Thunder flashed in Gerod¡¯s eyes.


    "Were you not a envoy... nor a bard¡ª"


    But I am a envoy. And a bard. And you fear me, despite it all,  Al thought, suddenly quite pleased with himself.


    "Be gone," Gerod spat after a pause. "I¡¯ve already sent a nightingale to Nol. It¡¯ll reach the Twisted Oaks far sooner than you''ll cross back over the borders of the Gnomish Wood and poke your nose past ring of the beechwood braid. But if you still fancy delivering word in person, and if you¡¯ve yet to grasp it, then hear me now as a envoy ¡ª my answer is  no , with all that comes with it."


    Al idly swirled the wine within his goblet, delaying for a brief moment ere setting it down. Rising smoothly, he offered Gerod a shallow bow.


    "As you will, Master Gerod."


    As he departed, he cast one last glance over his left shoulder ¡ª but the hooded figure did not turn.

 2. Into the Mist part 3

    Chapter 2


    Into the Mist


    -Part the Third-


    The torchlight cast wavering shadows upon the rough stone walls of the corridor, forming patterns like the blackened branches of trees. They swayed ever so slightly, dignified, as though caught in the languid rhythm of trembling flames.


    The hands of the Cypress Master,  Al mused silently.  The stuff of children''s nightmares.


    At last, he emerged onto the courtyard of the Grotto and, with a sigh of relief, tilted his head back toward the heavens. He squinted, savouring awhile the silvery glow of the moon and the scatter of stars. His gaze then drifted lazily downward along the sheer rock face, where water cascaded fiercely, mimicking the miniature Gates of G¨¦rlod. Only at the base of the cliff did it quieten, the torrent giving way to a slender stream that cut across the courtyard and slipped beyond the Grotto''s gates, weaving through the streets of the city beyond.


    Al strode toward the stream, knelt by its bank, and removed his hat. Cupping his hands, he filled them with icy water and splashed it across his face. The chill prickled his cheeks, sharp as if a thousand tiny needles of ice pierced his skin. Yet it cleared his eyes, shaking off the last vestiges of weariness. A pale rainbow, shimmering shyly above the stream like a delicate, many-hued bridge, suddenly appeared brighter, more vivid to him. Fine droplets of mist clung to it, glinting faintly with violet hues.


    Tearing his gaze from the spectral arc, Al reached for the flask fastened to his belt. Leaning over the stream, he prepared to fill it when a shadow swept across the courtyard, followed by the soft rustle of wings disturbing the stillness. The young bard looked up sharply.


    Three cuckoos, dark as ash-grey leaves, swept over his head and alighted gracefully upon the stone floor a yard away from him.


    Cuckoo Scouts,  Al thought, his brow furrowing as he began to fill his costrel, glancing at them with quiet curiosity. His puzzlement grew when one of the cloaked figures, dismounting nimbly from a bird¡¯s back, struck him as familiar. He was certain only when the scout spoke, his voice measured and commanding:


    ¡°We''re done for tonight. Release the birds. They¡¯re weary, and the night¡¯s nearly upon us.¡±


    Branod!, Al chuckled under his breath.


    The scout must have sensed the gaze of the young elf upon him, for he turned sharply, his keen eyes sweeping towards the stream. For a fleeting moment, he regarded Al intently, though his face betrayed nothing. The bard couldn¡¯t tell whether Branod recognised him or not.


    Yet it was enough to pique his interest, prompting a change in his orders.


    ¡°Ol¨¦d, you''ll handle tonight¡¯s report. Fly to the Citadel!¡± he commanded, turning back to his comrades.


    One of the remaining scouts, though with a hint of reluctance, nodded his understanding and swiftly remounted his cuckoo. The bird took to the skies nigh noiselessly, wings slicing through the cool night air. Branod followed its ascent with a brief glance ere setting off towards Al.


    ¡°Who are you? And what business brings you here after dark?¡±


    Al rose to his feet, baring his teeth in a mischievous grin.


    ¡°Even you greet me like a brigand tonight.¡±


    Branod¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°Al...¡± he murmured, a hesitant smile breaking upon his face. ¡°Al!¡±


    Still taken aback, he embraced the elf warmly.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve become a gnomish guard,¡± Al quipped after a moment, tilting his head playfully from side to side as though inspecting Branod¡¯s attire and gear. ¡°Why am I not surprised? You always did love scolding others for flouting the rules.¡±


    Branod let out a brief laugh but offered no retort. Instead, he pressed on with a question of his own.


    ¡°How did you end up here? S¨¦n Ser¨¦n¡¯s a long way off...¡± He fell briefly into thought, then fixed Al once more with a sharp, probing look. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Al meant to reply, but the sound of wings once again echoed off the rocky walls of the courtyard. The cuckoo alighted by the stream, its sharp yellow eye glinting with suspicion as it fixed upon the elf. A short distance away, the second of Branod¡¯s comrades had led his own bird to the water¡¯s edge to drink.


    ¡°Let¡¯s away from here,¡± Branod whispered, grasping Al by the arm and gently turning him toward a narrow path that veered from the courtyard. ¡°Every stone here has ears.¡±


    Al nodded in agreement, gathering his belongings ere following Branod in silence. Yet the gnome did not lead him through the main gates but along a slender trail that hugged the stream, hemmed in by towering walls of rock. Al had never ventured this way before, and he reckoned few others had either, save for the guards and the Master¡¯s servants. The path twisted treacherously, narrow and uneven. If one did not know it well, it proved perilous, riddled with sudden inclines, sharp descents, and jagged outcroppings that jutted like the blades of daggers from the stone.


    At last, they reached a gate. Branod exchanged a few quiet words with the watchmen, who then unbarred it and let them pass. On the far side, they emerged onto the fringes of the market. After the long hush of the Master¡¯s Grotto, the clamour of this place struck Al¡¯s ears like a storm, and it took him a moment to adjust to the lively hum of voices and clattering wares.


    This city never slumbers,  the elf mused with sudden fascination, casting a glance at Branod.


    ¡°For a bard, nowhere is too far,¡± he said with a sly grin. ¡°That¡¯s one of the reasons I became one. I¡¯d wither from sheer boredom if I had to linger for years in S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, choking on the dust of druidic tomes and wasting away amid dozens of craftsmen¡¯s workshops.¡±


    ¡°You speak of S¨¦n Ser¨¦n as though it were but a heap of last year¡¯s leaves,¡± Branod marvelled as they pushed their way through the throng clustered around the market stalls. Two young gnomish maidens exchanged hushed giggles, and Al flashed them a wide, mischievous grin.


    ¡°And to me, it¡¯s the grandest wonder I¡¯ve ever beheld,¡± the scout finished quietly, steering the elf down towards the lake¡¯s edge.


    Al shrugged.


    ¡°S¨¦n Ser¨¦n¡¯s a bottomless well, I¡¯ll grant you. Full of sorcery, aye. But one has to take pleasure in delving into its depths. I stifle in it.¡±


    The tranquil waters of the subterranean lake shimmered beneath a copper-gold sheen. Al sank down upon the stony shore and, sliding back his hood, tilted his head skyward. Above them loomed a dark forest of stalactites, hanging like a congregation of slumbering bats. Branod stood beside him, casting a wary glance about. They were alone on the shore, save for three gnomish children tossing shards of rock into the lake for amusement.


    The gnome''s gaze shifted from the elf to the gleaming waters.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve come to the Gates as a bard? Few here care to lend ear to a lute.¡±


    Al smirked, amused. Tearing his eyes from the stalactites, he lowered his head.


    ¡°Not as a bard. I¡¯m here on Nol¡¯s errand ¡ª though I didn¡¯t end up with the Master he sent me to.¡±


    ¡°I suppose I shouldn¡¯t ask what business Nol sent you to Ferlo for,¡± Branod said. ¡°Though, truth be told, I needn¡¯t ask ¡ª I may easily guess.¡±


    Al noticed the scout''s faint grimace. He fixed Branod with a keen gaze before asking, ¡°How did Gerod end up being chosen?¡±


    Branod glanced down at him, then lowered himself to sit by his side. He picked up a small stone and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers.


    ¡°Little do I know,¡± he said at last. ¡°I¡¯m but a lowly scout. Even our commander is given no explanations by the Stone Sages.¡±


    He cast the stone into the lake. The smooth surface quivered, and rippling brownish waves scattered outward in perfect circles, journeying to every corner of the world.


    ¡°But everyone in the Grotto, even I, knows it wasn¡¯t Gerod they truly chose. I mean¡­ they did choose him, but he isn¡¯t the heart of it. Gerod has an adviser. Strange, secretive. Like a shadow.¡±


    ¡°A hooded figure,¡± Al murmured, giving voice to his own thoughts without intending to.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve seen him as well.¡±


    ¡°Seen is saying much,¡± Al said, lifting his brows. ¡°I caught sight of a cloak and hood ¡ª they stirred but a few times.¡±


    Branod allowed himself a faint smile.


    ¡°I¡¯ve only caught a glimpse of him once or twice myself. His cloak and hood, that is. He never parts from them, as the ancient star-mages. Folk say he¡¯s a sylph. They say he¡¯s mighty. He comes to Gerod, then vanishes away ¡ª speaks sometimes, they say, with the Sages as well. With no one else. That¡¯s all I know.¡±


    Al nodded to show he understood. He, too, picked up a small stone and hurled it into the water with greater force than Branod had done, watching as it struck further from shore. He then turned a mischievous grin on the gnome.


    ¡°You oughtn¡¯t have told me that.¡±


    ¡°I oughtn¡¯t,¡± Branod agreed, his lips curving in a barely perceptible smile. ¡°But I was raised among your folk. I haven¡¯t forgotten it.¡±


    Al made no reply, for just then the stillness over the lake was shattered by the swift patter of running footsteps behind them. In an instant, they both turned, leaping to their feet. A figure in a drab cloak was racing toward them, a strand of ruddy hair slipping free from beneath the hood.


    Osgod,  Al recognised him at once, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger. He cast a sharp glance at Branod, catching a fleeting glimpse of the gnome reaching beneath his cloak for his sword.


    Then Al''s eyes shot back to Osgod. His movements were swift, cutting. A blade flashed from beneath his cloak, gleaming silver in the dim light ¡ª but Osgod did not strike at them. Like a mountain wind, he swept past, slashing Al¡¯s bundle with three, four sharp strokes of his knife.


    In a heartbeat, he was gone.


    Al sprang forward, ready to give chase, but Branod seized his arm with a firm grip and held him back.


    ¡°Leave it be!¡±


    The elf turned his attention to the bundle, inspecting the cuts. Just as he¡¯d thought, they were no random slashes ¡ª they formed two uneven yet razor-sharp "V" shapes, jagged as fangs.


    ¡°Who was that?¡± he asked Branod.


    The gnome cast a glance at the torn bundle ere answering.


    ¡°From the Pack of the Hoar Wolf. Thieves, but no common rabble. Cunning and vengeful. Best not to cross their path without good cause.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t for gain he did this,¡± Branod added thoughtfully, taking the bundle from Al and examining it with a careful eye. ¡°Then why?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯ve already crossed his path,¡± Al said, gazing into the distance where Osgod had vanished ¡®mongst the rocks.


    Yet there was no fear in his voice ¡ª only a spark of satisfaction.

 3. The Amber Casket part 1

    Chapter 3


    The Amber Casket


    -Part the First-


    Eastern S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, known as the Haven of the Grey Crags, stretched both along the sea and inland, where it was chiefly inhabited by tidecomers ¡ª the Water Wardens, whose homes nestled among the mighty coastal boulders. The sea waves here were usually gentle and unthreatening. The haven, like the rest of the city, was shielded from their fury by the nearby Isle of Pine Mist. Unlike the cliff-bound western reaches of S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, the eastern shore lay low, forming a small bay and a headland, at the tip of which stood one of the city''s two great lighthouses, wrapped snugly in the branches of pines, like a warm shawl woven from the prickly wool of mountain alpacas.


    Near the lighthouse, beneath a solitary pine tree standing apart from the rest of the grove, sat Mabb¨¦. She traced a finger idly over the shaggy, grey-green moss that clung to the root and stared absently at the tree¡¯s bark, which gleamed with a faint pinkish hue in the afternoon sun.


    ¡°What are we even looking for here?¡± she asked Macho impatiently, her voice loud enough to reach her brother perched aloft on the pine¡¯s branch.


    Macho glanced down at her, then sealed the glass vial in his hand, where fresh golden resin gleamed like molten sunlight. Tucking it into the pouch, he climbed down the trunk to the ground.


    ¡°You? Certainly nothing,¡± he retorted sharply, settling on the root beside Mabb¨¦. The sunbeams struck his face, prompting him to tilt his hat ¡ª woven from soft linden twigs ¡ª lower, so the brim cast a shadow over his eyes.


    ¡°How is it,¡± he continued after a pause, his tone laden with grievance meant for no one in particular, ¡°that after all these years of learning the trees, poring over books to master their anatomy and ways, I still know nought of their souls? Whenever I try to speak with them, they remain as silent as if bewitched. What am I doing wrong?¡±


    Mabb¨¦, who cared as little for trees as one might for last season¡¯s leaves, shrugged indifferently, her finger still tracing patterns across the moss.


    ¡°Ask Grandfather,¡± she suggested flatly.


    ¡°Grandfather, Grandfather...¡± Macho bristled at once. ¡°I¡¯m not you, always running to him with every trifling question. Besides, Grandfather isn¡¯t a treezard.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s the High Druid, the mightiest Tree Child in S¨¦ras,¡± Mabb¨¦ declared proudly. ¡°That¡¯s far more than a mere tree-wright ¡ª especially one who still gets his own title wrong when he writes it.¡±


    ¡°I was in a hurry...¡± Macho began clumsily, then caught himself. ¡°Besides... What would you know? You prattle like a child tugging at a druid''s cloak just because it shines prettily.¡±


    He adjusted his hat again, though not because it truly needed fixing. It was a gesture he made whenever anger gnawed at him ¡ª and as he grew older, it seemed to happen more often. Mabb¨¦ smiled inwardly at the sight of his irritation.  Don¡¯t try to outwit me, brother. I know better where to strike to make it sting.


    ¡°The title of High Druid is just that ¡ª a title,¡± Macho added after a pause, his tone softer now as he traced circles in the sand with the toe of his boot, grinding it down as though it were a pestle. ¡°Or perhaps it¡¯s more than that... if one knows how to wield it. But Grandfather¡¯s forgetting how.¡±


    Mabb¨¦ brushed a speck of moss from her skirt, green as the dapples on the linden leaves that sprouted from Macho¡¯s hat, then frowned as she looked at him.


    ¡°What are you really getting at?¡±


    ¡°Everything,¡± he said boldly. ¡°This whole Council is senseless; it only shows how weak the Forest Folk have become. The High Druid ought to rule alone, with a firm hand. Grandfather could do it ¡ª he  could  ¡ª but instead, what does he do? He wastes time listening to every petty druid, every Stone Sage, vodyanoy, or dragonmage just because  that¡¯s the way of things.  And meanwhile, the steppes to the west blaze anew, year after year for nigh thirty years. Dragons do as they please. They plot with gnomes, who grow stronger by the day. The balance of the elements teeters, and Grandfather does nothing. All in the name of elementals¡¯ freedom. I care nought for their freedom when the trees begin to shrivel and lock themselves away in silence. And now there¡¯s the matter of the Fortress ¡ª and your precious Al...¡±


    ¡°Leave Al out of this!¡± snapped Mabb¨¦, quicker than she meant to. Her cheeks burned as she caught the glint of her brother¡¯s dirty blue eyes ¡ª a mirror of her own.


    Macho grinned wickedly.


    ¡°You truly still pine for that wandering songster? He¡¯s flirted with half of you during the Linden Nights, strumming his lute for any lass willing to listen, and each of you means the same to him ¡ª  nothing.  You¡¯ll never tie him to you, no more than you could bind the wind with a rope. If you¡¯ve yet to grasp that, you¡¯re a bigger child than I thought.¡±


    Mabb¨¦ didn¡¯t answer at once. A shadow of sadness flickered through her thoughts.  When did we begin duelling with every word, racing to wound each other deeper?  Yet that thought was eftsoons overtaken by a prouder, more possessive one.  When did    he    learn to speak to me this way? Not long ago, he would have done anything for me.


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand a thing,¡± she said coldly, rising to leave. ¡°You all say the same nonsense. But none of you know Al like I do. None of you know who he really is. Only I know. And Al is mine. He always was and always will be.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Macho merely shrugged, adjusting his hat once more ere turning his gaze toward the calm waters of the sea, sinking into his own thoughts.


    Mabb¨¦ huffed, a sound like a vexed woodland creature, and lifted the hem of her skirt slightly to avoid snagging it on the rough pine bark. She moved around the great root and began walking up the cliff path toward the elven quarter of the City of Trees.


    Al.


    Yes, only I know him,  she affirmed fiercely in her heart.


    She had understood it from the very first day they met ¡ª or rather, the first night ¡ª whenas, among the darkening river thickets, Al showed her how fresh rain retunes a lute anew.


    It was a promise fulfilled.


    In the bustling market square of S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, she had heard a voice call out:


    ¡°Hey, girl!¡±


    When she turned her head, she saw an elf-boy leaning carelessly against the trunk of an aspen, grinning like a mischievous imp. Seeing Mabb¨¦''s gaze, he peeled himself away from the tree, strode towards her without hesitation, and asked bluntly:


    ¡°Are you the granddaughter of that one they made High Druid?¡±


    There was something in his grin that made Mabb¨¦ tolerate even the cheeky ¡®  that one¡¯  he used for her grandfather. She stopped to answer.


    ¡°Aye.¡± She lifted her chin proudly. ¡°And what of it?¡±


    ¡°Take me to him,¡± he said simply.


    She snorted like a young animal and furrowed her brow, studying him with growing curiosity. He was a nobody ¡ª a scruffy urchin in threadbare clothes ¡ª yet he drew the eye like the ruby jewel she had once glimpsed hidden away in her grandfather''s workshop. His hair gleamed with sunlight''s warmth, even beneath the grey shadow of clouds roaming the sky that day.


    ¡°Why should I? And besides, you can¡¯t just come in to see Grand... the High Druid. Go to the Stag Warden. He¡¯ll put your name on the list and tell you when the Grand... the High Druid will receive you.¡±


    ''If ever,'' she added inwardly, though she found she couldn¡¯t tear her gaze away from the boy¡¯s grin, and her face had already begun to brighten.


    Al pulled a wry face. Mabb¨¦ lifted her chin even higher and nimbly sidestepped a raindrop falling from the tree, then began walking slowly towards the road leading to the Two Oaks.


    ¡°I did,¡± Al said cheerfully, following after her. ¡°He told me to come back next week. That¡¯s too late for me. See, your grandfather¡¯s looking for a courier, they say. I¡¯d be perfect for the job, but if you don¡¯t help me, he¡¯ll pick someone else, and I¡¯ll lose my chance.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s in it for me?¡± Mabb¨¦ smiled, glancing sideways at him. ¡°Makes no difference to me who Grandfather picks ¡ª you or someone else.¡±


    At that, Al stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He drew a lute from behind his back, and Mabb¨¦ was startled to realise she hadn¡¯t noticed it therebefore. If there was anything in the world that interested her beyond the simple pleasures of daily life, it was music.


    Which, after all, was a pleasure in itself.


    ¡°You¡¯d be supporting a future bard. Isn¡¯t that enough?¡± said Al, and Mabb¨¦¡¯s eyes sparkled like sea waves catching sudden sunlight.


    ¡°You¡¯re a bard?¡±


    ¡°A bard in the making. Yet I may play anything you like.¡±


    ¡°And,¡± he added in a quieter tone, leaning towards her, ¡°I¡¯ll share one of the bards¡¯ secrets with you.¡±


    A robin chirped loudly from a nearby birch. Al glanced lazily towards the sound, then returned his gaze to Mabb¨¦, smiling with a mysterious, disarming charm.


    <hr>


    She climbed ever higher, and the lively, joyous bustle of the town grew clearer in her ears, replacing the quiet of the headland and cove. Shaken from her musings, the girl slowed her step, her gaze greedily sweeping over the market stalls and workshops that sprang up in dozens along the ascending road, emerging here and there from beneath the sprawling roots of birches and pines. Mabb¨¦ smiled to herself, narrowing her eyes in contentment. S¨¦n Ser¨¦n was like a hive of wild bees, like a skirt of many colours, and she felt herself an inseparable part of its whirling tapestry.


    At the top of the cliff stood two waiting carriages, each with a cradle woven from ash twigs suspended upon two sturdy wheels. Mabb¨¦ approached the first, where a small wingless dragon, harnessed to the carriage, cast her a sidelong glance with its almond-shaped eye, greenish-blue and set deep within a head as long and knotted as the root of a great tree. Sparing the creature only a fleeting look, the elf-maid shrugged lightly and leapt nimbly into the cradle. The dragon snorted under its breath.


    "To the Two Oaks!" Mabb¨¦ commanded.


    Only then did the carter take notice of her. He turned from his perch on the dragon''s back, and upon recognising the girl, broke into a smile.


    "Aye, aye, I''ll take ye there, Linden Maiden! Why wouldn''t I?" he declared merrily, then muttered something in the dragon¡¯s tongue. The creature returned its gaze to the road, and moments later the carriage creaked into motion.


    ¡°A fine day it is,¡± the carter remarked after a while. ¡°The Month of the Beech has dawned like a tale spun of the Tree Masters'' craft.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine¡­¡± Mabb¨¦ replied absently. She settled herself comfortably in the cradle, resting the back of her head against its edge and gazing upward. Bridges, like colourful spider threads, stretched below and above them, from tree to tree, from bare branch to branch, their railings carved to mimic forest blossoms.


    She began to hum a child''s song to the treetops and the sky, replacing forgotten lyrics with soft lilting notes:  ... a gown of gold so bright... given in delight... yet the mirror is cloaked in sorrow¡¯s dust...


    The carter laughed heartily and joined in with her tune, his voice ringing clear amidst the rustling trees.


    The Two Oaks were also known as the Twisted Ones, especially ¡®mongst the gnomes and elves of northern and western S¨¦ras. The castle, home to the Council of Druids, sat atop the slope of a gorge, with the river Jahotka winding through its depths some sixty yards from the edge of the cliff. The White Mistress¡¯s Road led the way to the Oaks, flanked on either side by birches, young and old alike, bowing gracefully to passers-by, as though honouring the retinue of a sylph-king.


    Mabb¨¦ stepped down from the cradle upon the courtyard''s ancient stones. Reaching beneath her hooded cape, she found the pouch hung around her neck and paid the carter for the journey. Once the carriage rolled away, she turned and lifted her gaze, striving to take in the vast bulk of the towering castle. It resembled a stout birch tree, thick at its base, branching higher up into a dozen towers-boughs. Sunlight still streamed from the southwest, gilding the pale, lace-like limestone walls, blurring the line between stone and the living oak trunks entwined with the castle itself. Sliding her hands back under the warm wool of her cape, Mabb¨¦ made her way toward the castle''s grand gates.


    The Stag Warden appeared as if summoned, emerging from behind the leg of the great Tree Stag. Both inclined their heads to the  elf-maid ¡ª the stag with majestic dignity, the many-coloured leaves adorning its antlers rustling like a starched skirt, and the Warden, a wild, skittish young imp named Gab, with a clumsy bow. He was barely older than Mabb¨¦ and seemed woefully lacking in the natural talents required of a guardian of the Two Oaks. Tradition had thrust the duty upon him far too soon.


    Mabb¨¦''s charm did not seem to make his role any easier.


    ¡°Is the Master Druid within the castle?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Aye, my lady. In council within the Oak Hall,¡± Gab replied.


    Mabb¨¦ grimaced, and the Warden peered at her from beneath a curtain of hornbeam-coloured hair.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be ending erelong,¡± he added. ¡°Some druids have already left. Best head there yourself, my lady, and see.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Mabb¨¦ said, lifting her chin and smiling charmingly, as befit the granddaughter of the High Druid. Gab¡¯s gaze, lingering upon her, gave her mood a pleasant lift.


    The Warden''s eyes shifted from her face to the immense wooden gates, which the stag nudged open with its antlers. Mabb¨¦ stepped inside, entering the heart of the great oak.

 3. The Amber Casket part 2

    Chapter 3


    The Amber Casket


    -Part the Second-


    The hollow trunk stretched empty for several yards upward, cloaked in dim twilight. At this hour, the lanterns had yet to be lit, and so the vast chamber was illuminated only by the pale light of day that streamed in through several round, unglazed windows. Rough-hewn steps, gnarled like bark itself, spiralled upwards, hugging the inner wall of the tree.


    Mabb¨¦ lifted the hem of her skirt ever so slightly and began her ascent, humming a merry tune as her steps fell into rhythm with the melody. She paused upon a landing, her gaze drawn to a bright patch of light painted upon the wall by one of the high windows. For a moment, she regarded her reflection in that sunlit patch as though it were a mirror, then spun herself twice in playful delight. The shadowy arcs of the balustrade seemed, upon the wall, to sprout directly from her form, like wild tendrils.


    Laughing softly to herself, she dashed higher and slipped through an opening in the tree, crossing a thick bough that served as a bridge to the cloister. The branch wove serpentine paths amidst the limestone floor, meandering like a riverbed. Sunlight streamed through grand windows framed by columns shaped like trees, their stone crowns branching outward to form pointed arches.


    Mabb¨¦ passed through wide, unguarded gates onto the inner courtyard. Countless other branches crept through balconies and terraces, each leading elsewhere. The thickest of them reached the Tower of the Council, curling around it like a hand about to close into a fist. Wide steps ascended along its length, leading straight to the Oak Hall.


    The guards at the base of the stair, recognising the Master Druid¡¯s granddaughter, allowed her passage without a word. Mabb¨¦ climbed swiftly, reaching the towering doors at the summit. She pushed them gently, as quietly as she could manage. Through the narrow crack slipped a ruddy beam of light, iron-hued and solemn. Along with it came the voice of Druid Myr of the Spruce, edged with incredulity.


    "Why do you delay? The title of the Lord of the Fortress will not content Gerod, just as it did not content the Master of Stones. Besides, declaring himself Lord of the Fortress is, for him, the same as claiming sovereign rule over the gnomes."


    "Self-appointed rule will not make Gerod a true king," came her grandfather Nol''s steady reply. "The Council must first acknowledge his claim."


    "Then he will seek to wrest your assent by force!" Myr''s voice now carried the heat of anger, a rare thing, for never before had Mabb¨¦ heard him raise it at her grandfather. "Why do you risk so much? What could be more perilous than a fratricidal war with the gnomes?"


    Nol said nought. A heavy silence hung between them, so deep that Mabb¨¦ could hear only her own breath. Then Myr spoke again, his tone shifting as realisation dawned.


    "You know more than you tell. The Council... me... What is it you know, master druid?"


    At that moment, Mabb¨¦ wavered slightly and braced herself against the door. The hinges groaned, loud enough to bring the druids'' conversation to an abrupt halt. The faint, uneven tapping of footsteps turning towards the entrance reached her ears. A moment later, the great doors were flung wide open. Sunlight poured in, dazzling the girl. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes and, thus half-blinded, stepped into the shadow-cloaked chamber.


    Running her hands down the front of her skirt, she smoothed the fabric, which now appeared darkened in the gloom, as though dyed in alder leaves. Then her gaze sought out her grandfather.


    "Mabb¨¦," Nol intoned, his face as stern as naked stone.


    Myr stood by the Council¡¯s great round table, his hand resting upon the branching back of his spruce-chair. His eyes followed Mabb¨¦, and he inclined his head in a curt, formal greeting.


    "Miss Mabb¨¦."


    It always seemed to her that Myr did not favour her much ¡ª nor, for that matter, Macho, whom he was charged with teaching the art of treezardy.


    "I shall take my leave," he added after a moment, setting his hat atop his head. "Master druid, I trust we shall continue our discussion anon."


    Nol inclined his head with the barest of nods, and Myr strode towards the door. Once he had vanished beyond it, Mabb¨¦ fixed her gaze upon her grandfather. Adjusting the grip on the carved head of his staff, he made his way toward the Council table.


    He limps like Lathrod,  she thought suddenly, surprised by the comparison to the hideous, fat son of the guard commander.  And yet... so very, very different! Grandfather is dignified in all that he does.  This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Like an eagle.


    Nol set his staff aside and seated himself in the Chair of the High Druid. Reaching for a parchment that lay upon the table, he began to read.


    "What are you doing here?" Nol demanded in a chastening tone, his eyes still skimming the parchment in his hand. "Were you not told about the council meeting?"


    "I was," Mabb¨¦ answered cheerfully. She stepped closer to the table and traced the outline of the painted willow leaves upon the Council¡¯s emblem with her forefinger. "But I was bored."


    "Bored, were you?" Nol¡¯s lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile. His gaze, though, softened into something more indulgent. Rolling the parchment into a scroll, he strode to a small oak side table. There, he took up a candle, wax dripping from it in dark green rivulets that glimmered faintly from afar.


    "And you thought to find remedy for your boredom  here? " he laughed, a brief, dry chuckle. Mabb¨¦ merely shrugged, sensing he sought no true answer.


    "Still," he added, "it is well you came. I have something to give you."


    The elf-maid''s eyes sparkled with delight.


    "A gift?"


    Nol made no immediate reply. He pressed a seal into a pool of emerald wax before saying calmly, "Go to the workshop and wait for me there."


    Mabb¨¦ nodded, her face alight with joy.


    "But don¡¯t be long!" she called over her shoulder as she dashed up the stairs and onto the thick root of the Second Oak, which stretched through a great round window, peering boldly into the Council Hall.


    Through this window she slipped, crossing the root till she reached the mighty trunk. With a firm shove, she pushed open the heavy, green-stained doors ¡ª a side entrance to her grandfather''s workshop.


    Sunlight strained to pierce the western-facing window, and Mabb¨¦ went to it, flinging the shutters wide. The light surged in, fierce as steam from a boiling cauldron, before racing toward the scriptorium on the desk, drenching the open pages of a tome in quivering gold.


    Mabb¨¦ perched on the edge of the chair, her gaze flitting over the clutter scattered across the dark oak surface. Chaos reigned here. Despite her grandfather''s stern nature, his workshop was alway a muddle.


    Her attention was caught by a fragment of browned papyrus peeking out between the book''s pages. Curious, she reached for it and examined the hurried yet elegant handwriting:


    "Not tomorrow, not the day after. When the yellow poppies bloom. Myla."


    Heat rose to her cheeks, and her fingers clenched the paper¡¯s edges on their own accord. Yet she mastered herself, smoothing the note ere slipping it carefully back between the pages.


    She swiftly moved away from the desk and made her way down the spiral stairs that led to the lower level of the workshop, where the alchemical laboratory lay nestled within the hollow of the great tree¡¯s trunk. Sunlight scarcely ventured here, and shadows gathered thick as in a forest of spruce.


    "Alchemy is the child of night," her grandfather was wont to say. Yet Mabb¨¦ had no fondness for the night, well-nigh as little as for alchemy itself. She snorted softly at the memory of his words and reached for the flint.


    A flicker of fire darted through the emerald panes of the lantern, casting the laboratory in a greenish glow. The girl wandered toward an empty crucible hanging askew above the hearth, idly stirring its hollow with a metal rod.


    Moments later, a faint sound reached her ears ¡ª the uneven tapping of a halting gait. She turned her head and spied her grandfather¡¯s upright figure at the foot of the stairs. In the laboratory''s dimness, the cobalt hue of his cloak shimmered with a turquoise sheen, the embroidered emblem of the Council glinting faintly. His face, pale and noble, seemed even fairer than usual.


    "What are you doing down here?" he asked, a hint of wonder in his tone.


    Mabb¨¦ only shrugged, smiling impishly. For a fleeting moment, Nol¡¯s eyes seemed to grow young again, gleaming with a boyish brightness. He glanced around briefly before reaching for one of the small vials ¡ª a flask containing a thick liquid, the colour of ripened forest berries. He held it up under her nose.


    "Behold, Mabb¨¦! Unicorn¡¯s and Linden''s Tears. Apart, they are tears of sorrow; together, they become tears of boundless joy."


    The elf-maid furrowed her brow, both puzzled and a touch wary of this strange enthusiasm, which was rare for him.


    "Grandfather," she said, taking the flask from his hand and placing it back among the other vessels, "I couldn¡¯t care less about such things... What was it you wished to give me?"


    "Ah, yes," Nol nodded gently, his smile softening. "What care have you for the sorrows of this dusty workshop, my fair one, my little Linden Harpist?"


    He seated himself upon the stool by the hearth, falling into a solemn silence as he gazed into the blackened steel of the cauldron. His sudden stillness seemed to Mabb¨¦ far graver than the strange fervour that had gripped him moments before.


    She    was beautiful once too,  a fleeting thought darted through her mind,  and she loved all those rods and pots.


    Then her mother''s hushed words to her father returned unbidden:  ¡°He only loved her. His first wife. No one else. He could never love another. For many, he keeps that patient smile in his pocket, but in truth, he scorns them all.¡±


    Kneeling beside the stool, Mabb¨¦ grasped Nol¡¯s forearm and shook it impatiently.


    "Grandfather! What was it you meant to give me?"


    Pulled from his reverie as though awoken from a dream, Nol turned his gaze from the crucible to the girl.


    "Ah, yes," he murmured, brushing a hand distractedly through his hair. "Yes, the gift. Wait but a moment."


    He ascended the stairs and erelong returned, a small bundle clasped in his hand. Setting his staff aside, he pulled a second stool close so that they might sit together.


    "I have long wished to give this to thee," he said, his gaze keen as he held the bundle out to her.


    Mabb¨¦ frowned slightly, glancing between her grandfather and the gift, then eagerly unwrapped it from its birch-leaf covering. She gasped, though no sound fully left her lips.


    A wondrous casket lay before her, wrought entirely from golden amber. Upon the lid, a unicorn was carved from her favourite shade: greenish-blue, laced here and there with dark streaks, like tendrils of a black moon''s light. Its hooves reared high, wild and fierce, as though the creature were alive.


    She lifted her wide eyes to Nol, who smiled faintly, with a dignified air.


    "Open it," he bade softly.


    Obediently, she lifted the lid. At once, a melody burst forth like a fountain, soaring upwards through the workshop and out the oak''s windows, as though the unicorn itself had sprung to life, galloping across the air, carrying the song upon its back.

 4. The Maiden from the Lake of Blazing Stars part 1

    Chapter 4


    The Maiden from the Lake of Blazing Stars


    -Part the First-


    The main highway from the gnomish capital to S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, called the Silver River Way (as the Forest Folk named G¨¦rlod), stretched more than twenty leagues along its gleaming waters ere reaching Oak Haven, only to meander further through woods and meadows towards the sea¡¯s distant embrace.


    Yet in Al, the bard¡¯s love for wandering had bested the sensible desire to reach Far¨¦n Bernlas before the onset of the Season of Snows. He had veered from the route, a decision he now silently cursed.


    Wearied from long travel, he descended from a minor road, where curiosity had led him astray. In the midst of the wood, he found a great stone and clambered atop it. Just as he¡¯d hoped, the path lay plainly visible from there, making it easy to watch for any passing cart. He doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, as a gentle breeze tousled his hair.


    His gaze swept idly across the forest¡¯s russet carpet of decaying beech leaves, lit here and there by the last rays of the setting sun. Reaching beneath his travel cloak, he drew forth his lute. Running his fingers slowly across the strings, he fell into thought, memories rising unbidden ¡ª memories of his father and an evening whenas he had still been a child.


    The evening of his twentieth birthday. His father had taken him to the mountain river, to the place where, years before, he had planted a willow, Al''s month tree. The moons gleamed brightly in the black, cloudless sky ¡ª one a slender crescent, the other full and round as a wagon wheel.


    They had seated themselves upon the willow¡¯s roots, which twisted above the damp earth and reached towards the water''s edge. His father, cloaked in wool, had drawn forth a lute, much as Al did now.


    ¡°Look,¡± his father had said, plucking the strings with nimble fingers, ¡°They say it was Mistress Willow who fashioned the first lute from spruce wood, while the Children of the Tree Lord wove its strings from the very fibres and veins of her own leaves. The first choir was spun by sylphs, giving the lute¡¯s music the weightlessness of air; the second by tidecomers, who blessed it with the fluidity of water; the third by dragons, who imbued it with the searing heart of flame; and the last by gnomes, who shaped it to be strong as the earth itself.¡±


    ¡°And what about us?¡± Al had asked eagerly, watching in fascination as his father¡¯s long, deft fingers danced across the strings, coaxing a soft melody that the river¡¯s murmuring waves carried away into the night.


    ¡°We,¡± his father had said, smiling with that solemn, proud, and near-imperceptible smile of his, ¡°we know how to play it. None play the lute better than the bardic folk of the elves. And you, my son, shall be one of us. Songs cry out within your soul ¡ª light as the mountain breeze, yet keen as its cutting edge. It has ever been thus.¡±


    ''Light as the breeze, yet keen.''


    Lightness had always come easier to Al than keenness.


    The image of his father blurred before Al''s eyes as a sudden crack and a voice broke the stillness behind him:


    ¡°Cursed mud! Mischievous Likho must¡¯ve wrought this ill!¡±


    The boy spun around, but seeing nought, slung his bundle over his shoulder, leapt down from the stone, and made his way toward the source of the shout. He trudged a dozen yards or so, sinking now and again into the deep drifts of fallen leaves, until he reached the edge of a ravine. At its bottom ran a narrow road, barely wide enough to accommodate a four-wheeled cart of the sort that now caught Al''s eye.


    The back of the cart ¡ª particularly the right rear wheel ¡ª was sunk nearly halfway into the clinging, sodden earth, causing the entire contraption to list stubbornly to one side. It refused to budge, despite the efforts of a hedgehog yoked to its front and a burly carter, who strained mightily to push it forward. Stolen novel; please report.


    Al''s gaze shifted from the carter to the hedgehog, for beside the creature stood yet another figure ¡ª a slender one clad in a russet-brown cloak embroidered with rowan motifs and wearing a dirty-red hat. She held the hedgehog''s reins and seemed intent on urging it to greater effort.


    After a moment, the figure glanced back, perhaps sensing someone behind her. Al realised she was a young maiden with elven features. Wisps of pale red hair, light as spider silk dyed with faded nasturtium petals, escaped from beneath her hat. Her freckled face looked thoughtful and intent, and nothing in it stirred at the sight of the stranger, save for her bright eyes, which gleamed softly ¡ª not with fear, but with curiosity.


    Al regarded her for a moment ere turning his gaze back to the carter and grinning broadly.


    ¡°¡¯Tis not the work of Likho, but the rain,¡± he called, nimbly skidding down the leaf-strewn slope of the ravine. ¡°You¡¯ll need something beneath it!¡±


    The carter turned, squinting at Al ere narrowing his thick, bushy brows in what was surely a moment of inward reckoning ¡ª assessing just what sort of fellow had appeared before him.


    ¡°Oh-ho! Full o'' bright ideas, are ye?¡± he growled. ¡°Right then, grab that flat branch o''er yonder!¡± He pointed to a hefty beech bough, stripped of leaves and side shoots. ¡°I¡¯ll try to lift the cart while you wedge it under the wheel. Then we¡¯ll lever it up, and F¨¦ven here''ll get the hedgehog to haul us free.¡±


    The girl named F¨¦ven nodded in understanding and took hold of the reins once more, which she must have let slip whilst listening to Al and the carter converse. The elf-boy shot her a playful grin, but she merely tilted her head, as though studying him, before turning back to the hedgehog and murmuring softly, her hand gliding over one of the creature¡¯s bristling spines.


    Grasping the bough, Al glanced back at the carter.


    ¡°Are you not afeard I might be a brigand or a thief?¡± he asked with a hint of mischief, wedging the branch between the thick, clinging mire and the wheel¡¯s rim as the carter hefted the cart, tilting it slightly.


    ¡°And what¡¯s a thief to take from us?¡± the carter retorted, releasing his hold on the cart. He nodded toward a heap of branches jutting from between the cart¡¯s beams and slats. ¡°Firewood?¡±


    ¡°Mayhap your daughter?¡± Al teased.


    ¡°She¡¯s no daughter o¡¯ mine,¡± the carter laughed, casting a glance at F¨¦ven. The elf-maid looked up too, raising an eyebrow ere offering her first smile ¡ª small, barely perceptible, yet bright with mirth that seemed oddly out of place given her earlier solemnity.


    Her sudden change amused Al greatly.


    ¡°And she¡¯d not be easily stolen!¡± the carter added. ¡°Right then ¡ª heave to!¡±


    We¡¯ll see about that, thought Al with a mischievous grin, seizing the bough alongside the carter and levering it downward to free the wheel from the mire¡¯s grip. The mud splattered violently as the hedgehog strained forward, the wheel spinning at last. Moments later, the cart lurched ahead, leaving the clinging pit behind.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s done!¡± declared the carter, clapping his hands together to rid them of damp flecks of beech bark. Then he cast a shrewd glance at Al, his thick brows knitting once more.


    ¡°Time for us to head home. But what of you, forest wanderer? How comes it you¡¯re roaming our lakeside wilds? You don¡¯t look much like a thief, but what manner of fellow are ye?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Alg¨¦n ¡ª or just Al,¡± the boy replied, reaching for his bundle, which he had tossed onto the leaf-strewn ground. ¡°I wander the woods, for it¡¯s my calling to go from tree to tree, singing songs with my lute.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± The carter chuckled. ¡°We¡¯ve got ourselves a bard, have we? Hear that, F¨¦v?¡±


    ¡°I hear, I hear,¡± F¨¦ven said without much enthusiasm, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. She ambled to the back of the cart, braced herself with her hands, and sprang up nimbly to sit on the bed, facing away from the direction they were bound.


    ¡°I¡¯d gladly ride with you for a night or two, if there¡¯s a snug hollow with a clay stove to be found,¡± said Al to the carter, though his bold gaze still lingered on the elf-maid. ¡°I¡¯ve grown weary of lighting fires in the rain and damp, and there¡¯s a long road yet before me to Oak Haven, and further still to the City of Trees.¡±


    ¡°Why not, then? Climb aboard ¡ª the village¡¯ll surely find space for ye,¡± the carter replied as he clambered onto the cart, settled himself on the bench, and took hold of the reins. ¡°The Pine Festival¡¯s the day after tomorrow, and the night¡¯ll be as long as a trek through endless caverns. You¡¯ll do well to play us a tune on that magical lute of yours.¡±


    As Al tossed his bundle onto the cart and seated himself beside F¨¦ven, the carter chuckled under his breath.


    ¡°They say bard-folk carry fates in their songs and read secrets from souls. Nonsense, that!¡±


    Onward they trundled. The blaze of the sunset, which had earlier seemed to burn far off where the Dragon Mountains and Dragon Volcanoes sharpened their peaks against the heavens, was now fading into the brownish-grey haze of dusk. The last vestiges of sunlight scattered into the air and melted into the chill of the approaching evening. F¨¦ven reached for a lantern nestled among the cartload of branches. Fetching a flint and striker from a pouch hidden beneath her cloak, she struck a spark, lighting the candle within. The freckles on her nose gleamed golden in the sudden glow as she cast a glance at Al.


    ¡°Show me,¡± she said abruptly, without explanation, though with a curious eagerness that was almost amusing.


    Al laughed.


    ¡°Show you what?¡±


    ¡°What you play on.¡±


    Still chuckling, Al reached beneath his cloak for the lute. He plucked a few strings, the notes soft and airy, then glanced fleetingly up at F¨¦ven from beneath his brow. She was studying the instrument with the intensity of a scholar examining some new and undiscovered marvel.


    ¡°Want to try it?¡± he offered, holding the lute out to her.


    But she shook her head.


    ¡°No,¡± she said firmly. ¡°Just play.¡±

 4. The Maiden from the Lake of Blazing Stars part 2

    Chapter 4


    The Maiden from the Lake of Blazing Stars


    -Part the Second-


    Al played a lively melody, one of those his very soul could summon with effortless grace, and which alway sprang from his fingers like the work of a master. F¨¦ven listened intently, her gaze fixed on the endless stretch of beechwood, where the secret night-life of the forest was slowly awakening. The cart rumbled steadily downhill, and after a time the russet hues of the beeches, veiled by the dusk, gave way to the darker green of pines. Younger, shorter trees began clustering around them, thick and close-knit.


    At last, Al glimpsed the lights of a settlement shimmering in the distance, along with a glimmering expanse that could only be the lakeshore. As they drew nearer, the outlines of houses loomed faintly through the dim glow of elven lanterns.


    The carter did not steer directly into the village but turned left, descending further toward the lakeside and a cluster of household buildings nestled amidst woodland floor and sheltered by the domes of young beeches and pines.


    Only now might Al truly see the forest lake, previously hidden by the rocky banks that fenced off the village¡¯s heart from its waters. Smooth as a sheet of glass, it gleamed with a greenish-black sheen under the night sky, where now and again the stars reflected upon its surface, glimmering like white gold.


    "Enchanted torches burn within this lake, brighter than the will-o¡¯-the-wisps over the marshes," Al murmured, setting aside his lute as he drifted into thought. "If you stare too long, you forget all else and yearn with your whole being to touch that fire, knowing full well it can never be reached."


    "The lake is but a distorted mirror," F¨¦ven replied. "The image of the stars wavers in it, bends, widens ¡ª laws of nature, that¡¯s all."


    Al tore his gaze from the lake and looked at the elven girl, laughing aloud. The cart came to a halt by the woodpile, where a small, friendly fire flickered by the entrance to the woodshed. F¨¦ven leapt lightly down from the cart bed and approached the flames, stretching out her hands to warm them. Al followed, and she smiled ¡ª a rare third smile since they''d met.


    ¡°I was raised by a glassmaker, not a poet,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯ve hardly the imagination of a bard.¡±


    ¡°But that was well said, and not without sense,¡± she added thoughtfully after a pause, her gaze turning back toward the lake. A sudden breeze slipped from behind the grass, scattering her hair like the tufts of a dandelion. She brushed it from her face with a gentle, careless gesture.


    ¡°I feel it too sometimes,¡± she admitted, ¡°that the reflections of the stars draw me toward them ¡ª like something I don¡¯t yet know but ought to, and long to, no matter the cost. Besides¡­ in the village, they say the lake is a magic mirror, that it does not merely reflect the stars but swallows their light, like a bottomless abyss. They say it¡¯s the dwelling of Likho.¡±


    ¡°And does Likho truly dwell there?¡± Al asked.


    F¨¦ven glanced at him, and once again he caught a gleam of mirth in her eyes.


    ¡°Every village has its tale to frighten children on storytelling nights. If they were all true, Likho would have far too many homes, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    She drew her hands back from the fire and passed by Al, heading toward the cart once more.


    "My mother¡¯s workshop stands empty. You can stay there if you like," she said casually ere turning her attention to unharnessing the hedgehog.


    Al smiled to himself, pleased, and joined the carter in unloading the branches, stacking them neatly beneath the woodshed¡¯s roof.


    The carter chatted and jested with a woodsman they found waiting there, recounting the price he''d fetched for his baskets at the market in the neighbouring village, from which they had just returned. Now and then, he tried to draw Al into the conversation with various questions, but the young elf was not particularly talkative. His attention kept drifting toward F¨¦ven, who, having freed the hedgehog from its harness, was now stroking its head and scratching under its chin. The creature leaned eagerly into her touch, and even when she withdrew her hand to tend to the harness, it lingered, gazing at her wistfully before ambling over to a pile of brushwood and beech leaves near the woodshed wall, where it burrowed in as though sinking into a warm quilt.


    When their work was finally done, F¨¦ven led Al up a winding path away from the lakeshore and back into the depths of the forest. To their left, through the branches, the lights of the settlement still sparkled merrily, while shadowy figures moved about in the village below. They walked mostly in silence. F¨¦ven hardly spoke at all, and even Al, usually a chatterer, found himself unusually quiet. He wasn''t sure whether it was due to weariness or simply because the silence in F¨¦ven''s company felt easy, soothing.


    Erelong, they ascended a gentle slope, and now from the right came the glow of lanterns strung upon thick beech boughs. The path led them deeper among a cluster of trees, each home to dwellings inhabited by the Forest Folk. They halted at the foot of the last tree. Beneath its twisted root lay a set of dusky blue-grey doors, illuminated by the warm glow of an iron lantern hung above them. Stairs spiralled upward along the trunk, leading to two homes ¡ª one small and nestled lower, hidden in shadow behind a curtain of beech leaves, the other larger and radiant with golden light, its windows shining like twin suns. Wisps of translucent, bluish smoke curled from its chimney, cooled by druidic powder to smother sparks and guard the forest from fire.


    F¨¦ven glanced briefly at the smoke rising into the night sky, then smiled softly, her expression gentle and unguarded.


    "Let¡¯s head up first. You must be hungry, and Jyrcho¡¯s probably making supper."


    "Hungry¡¯s putting it mildly," Al admitted as he followed her up the crooked spiral staircase, whose steps wound around knots and growths in the beech bark, sometimes giving way to russet-coloured caps of polypores that formed natural footholds.


    As they entered the larger house, they were greeted by a warm, bright room and the scent of barberry and dried blackberry cakes, though a faint trace of burning was beginning to creep through the air. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Jyrcho?¡± F¨¦ven called, hurriedly shedding her cloak and hat. Tossing them over the peg, she strode to the hearth in the corner and lifted a pan from the flames.


    Al, meanwhile, cast a glance around the room. At its centre stood a rectangular table hewn from a pine trunk, its bench backs twisting outward in a whimsical tangle of branches. To the left was the cooking area, where F¨¦ven busied herself rescuing supper, whilst on the right, partially veiled by a curtain of dried beech leaves, lay a pine-bark slab cushioned with moss, serving as someone¡¯s bed.


    Two doorways led into adjoining compartments. From one of them emerged a boy, younger than Al and seemingly younger than F¨¦ven as well. He looked either drowsy or profoundly bored. With a lazy flick of his hand, he brushed dark, unruly hair from his brow ¡ª hair as wild yet soft as F¨¦ven¡¯s. His gaze drifted languidly to the elf-girl.


    ¡°You¡¯re back. I was just cooking.¡±


    F¨¦ven¡¯s lips twitched faintly with amusement as she held up a charred pancake.


    ¡°More like burning. Where¡¯s Fet?¡±


    The boy shrugged.


    ¡°With Father.¡± He took the pancake from F¨¦ven, bit off a hearty chunk, and chewed slowly, with deliberate indifference. ¡°Good enough for me.¡±


    Then his eyes lit upon Al, gleaming suddenly with interest.


    F¨¦ven glanced at Al as well. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, as though uncertain why she was studying him with that strange, searching look once more.


    He reminds me of a young fox,  Al thought, grinning broadly. The grin unsettled her, briefly, and she averted her gaze, turning instead to the boy.


    ¡°This is my younger brother, Jyr¨¦¡­ Jyrcho. And this is the bard Alg¨¦n.¡±


    ¡°Al,¡± the bard added, not taking his eyes from F¨¦ven. Her skittishness dissolved like a wisp of frail mist, and she returned to flipping the pancakes.


    ¡°Al.¡± She smiled faintly to herself.


    "A bow of the druidic guard!" Jyrcho marvelled, having wandered up behind Al to cast a covetous eye upon the hazelwood arc. "I''d know one anywhere, though I¡¯ve only ever glimpsed it once ¡ª from afar, mind you ¡ª since Father forbade me from touching it, as he always does with anything worth having."


    There was such bitterness in his tone that F¨¦ven cast him a reproachful glance.


    "Father dislikes weapons, and you were just a child. Why would he let you treat one like a toy?"


    "Dislikes weapons!" Jyrcho snorted. "A pack of wolves could be upon us, and he''d neither nock a bow himself nor let us do so."


    His gaze wandered back to the bow. "May I see it?" he asked eagerly.


    Al shrugged off his bundle and, with care, slipped the bow from his shoulder, holding it out toward the boy.


    "Why not?"


    The boy seized it eagerly and, settling himself at the table, began tracing the carved patterns on the arc with childlike greed. Al chuckled silently to himself. Shrugging off his cloak and setting his belongings by the wall, he observed Jyrcho awhile. Though he and F¨¦ven bore little resemblance, there was something shared between them, enough that their kinship was beyond question.


    "Magnificent!" Jyrcho grinned broadly as Al took a seat opposite him at the table. "Where did you get it? Aren''t you a bard? Are you part of the guard? I shall be, soon enough! I''ll flee this dreary place straight for S¨¦n Ser¨¦n and join the guard."


    "Father will never allow it," F¨¦ven interjected calmly as she placed plates and bowls filled with honey dusted with elderflower pollen upon the table. Al stood to help her set them out. She glanced at him from beneath her fringe, playfully somehow, then fetched a platter of pancakes.


    "Father, Father... Soon enough he won¡¯t have a say in anything," Jyrcho declared defiantly, dipping a pancake into his honey. "And truth be told, I care not for his word even now."


    "Jyrcho!" F¨¦ven scolded sharply. The boy jutted his lips in defiance, though his gaze softened, tinged with shame.


    "I¡¯m not of the guard," Al answered at last. He too served himself a pancake, though instead of eating, he traced the rim of his plate absently, lost in thought. The fire in the hearth hissed suddenly, like a serpent roused from slumber. Al smiled faintly, with pride. "I belong to nothing and no one. But I know how to shoot a bow, and as a druid¡¯s envoy I set forth from S¨¦n Ser¨¦n. That¡¯s how I came by the druidic bow."


    "You¡¯re an envoy? Of the Council?" Jyrcho, who had seemed momentarily disappointed by Al¡¯s lack of ties to the guard, perked up again. "Where did they send you? What errand?"


    "He¡¯s bound by secrecy, surely," F¨¦ven answered in Al''s stead, resting her chin on her hands. After a moment¡¯s quiet, curiosity sparked anew in her gaze.


    "What is he like?" she asked suddenly.


    Al furrowed his brow, puzzled.


    "Nol," F¨¦ven clarified. "As an envoy, you know him better than most. They say he''s the most skilful druid in centuries. What is he truly like? Can he really do all they claim?"


    Al laughed and shrugged.


    "I''ve no idea. I know nothing of alchemy, nor do I care to. To me, Nol''s a sombre oddity. Though he seems born to rule, and there''s a strange power about him ¡ª impossible not to notice. But why does he interest you?"


    "I don''t know," F¨¦ven replied, shrugging gently. Her expression grew solemn once more as she idly picked at her pancake, lost in thought. After a while, she rose and made her way to the kitchen to fetch a jug of juice. Al returned to his own meal, though his eyes often strayed to the elven girl, as though each of her movements held some curious, unfathomable secret.


    "F¨¦v''s a witch in her own right," Jyrcho mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Knows all about herbs and brews potions like some alchemist. That¡¯s why she''s interested in every oddity that crosses her path. No one¡¯s more dotty than our brother, and F¨¦ven and Father think he¡¯s some kind of genius."


    "What?" he added defensively under F¨¦ven¡¯s reproachful glare. "It¡¯s the truth. Anyway," he turned back to Al, "you¡¯ll see for yourself soon enough."


    For a short while, they ate in silence, till a sudden gleam lit up Jyrcho¡¯s eyes. "Father says there¡¯ll be war. Do you know anything about it?" he asked, as though nothing could thrill him more than such a prospect.


    The question caught Al off guard, unexpectedly reminding him of Gerod. Yet the bard brushed the thought aside ¡ª something else puzzled him far more.  How does a glassmaker from this wilderness, where Likho haunt the lakes, know aught of a war that only took me by surprise a month ago?


    "There might be," Al conceded, "though it''s a long way off yet." He narrowed his eyes. "What would you want with war?"


    "It makes it easier to become a warrior," Jyrcho answered, as if the matter were self-evident. Al laughed heartily.


    "Have you ever killed anything?" he asked.


    "No," Jyrcho admitted, glancing up from beneath his fringe.


    "Then don''t be in such haste for it," Al said, still smiling.


    Silence settled over them again. Al felt weariness creeping over him, his eyelids growing heavy. He was grateful when F¨¦ven spoke up, saying she would show him to the workshop where he was to spend the night. He drained the last of his raspberry juice and, gathering his belongings, followed the elf-maid from the house into the cool night air.


    The night seemed darker now, for the Misty Wanderer had hidden himself behind a veil of clouds, and the lanterns hanging from the neighbouring tree had flickered out. F¨¦ven walked ahead, holding a small lantern aloft, its wavering light guiding them down the spiralling steps. When they reached the base, she pushed open the blue-painted door and disappeared into the hollow within.


    Watching his step to avoid slipping into the tangled roots, Al followed her inside.


    From the lantern¡¯s flame, she lit a waiting lamp upon the table, its warm yellow-white glow spreading across the workshop. Al glanced about. Baskets woven from pine needles brimmed with skeins, threads, and fabrics, whilst shelves crowded with cauldrons and flasks of every size teetered in disarray. Approaching the table, he ran his hand curiously over a bundle of dried blossoms and vivid scraps of linen.


    "My mother was a dyer," F¨¦ven said, answering his questioning glance. She too looked around, as if the workshop were a place strange to her or long forgotten. "This was her secret stronghold. She loved us dearly and let us do as we pleased ¡ª but here, we were seldom allowed."


    "I''m beginning to feel like a trespasser," Al jested.


    "No need," she replied lightly. "It¡¯s only a hollow. No one¡¯s used it since Mother passed. Only Fet comes here now and then."


    "Your other brother?"


    F¨¦ven nodded, smiling softly, just as she had when bidding him upstairs for supper. Her amber eyes glimmered, reminiscent of stars reflected in the lake earlier that evening.


    Perhaps she truly is a witch,  Al thought with quiet amusement. F¨¦ven lingered for a moment, studying him thoughtfully.


    But she does smile prettily.


    "Light the stove. It¡¯s cold in here," she said at last, handing him a quick command ere taking up the lantern once more. Casting one final glance at Al, she slipped out of the workshop, leaving him to the warmth yet unkindled.

 5. Wolves Bare Their Fangs part 1

    Chapter 5


    Wolves Bare Their Fangs


    ¡ª  Part the First  ¡ª


    The grey dawn slowly flushed crimson. Fresh, feeble rays of the rising sun began to fall upon A¨¦na¡¯s cloaked shoulders and the sleek back of Haar. The shadow of the wolf stretched across the frost-browned grasses of the steppe, racing alongside them as they ran.


    Spurred by the firm press of A¨¦na¡¯s knees, Haar quickened his pace, darting like a thunderbolt across the gnomish meadows. The girl bared her teeth in a wild grin. Her hood slipped from her head, and her hair gleamed like spun gold, while frost crystals on her flushed cheeks glittered like icy stars.


    ¡°Faster! Faster!¡± she whispered fervently into the wolf¡¯s furry ear.


    At last, they dashed into an alder grove nestled ¡®mongst rocks, small as grains of sand beneath the feet of a mighty dragon when compared to the towering peaks beyond. Haar slowed, his powerful gait easing into a lope. A¨¦na slid from his silver-furred back to the frost-bound earth, graceful as a falling leaf. The wolf bolted ahead, his shape eftsoons swallowed by the pale-grey boulders, vanishing from the gnome-girl¡¯s sight.


    He¨¦l lay sprawled upon one of the stones, hands tucked behind his head, fingers tangled in the wild thicket of his dark auburn hair. Catching sight of him from afar, A¨¦na darted between the alders and clambered up the rocks. Without a word, she curled herself against his side, nestling as one might into a mossy bed warmed by the sun.


    Without opening his squinted eyes wider, He¨¦l smiled faintly.


    ¡°Where were you last night?¡±


    ¡°Haar finally took me to his pack,¡± A¨¦na declared, her wide, triumphant grin disappearing into the folds of his cloak. ¡°He trusted me as he would V¨¦lho.¡±


    He¨¦l lifted one brow slightly and turned his head toward her.


    ¡°And you went alone, without V¨¦lho?¡±


    ¡°So what if I did!¡± she huffed, sitting up so she could see his face. ¡°Let anyone try to lay a hand on me!¡±


    She drew a dagger and sliced patterns through the air, swift and sure as a swallow tracing figure-eights above a clearing. The blade halted just a whisper from He¨¦l¡¯s throat.


    ¡°I¡¯d thrash them so soundly they¡¯d weep for daring to bare a fang at me!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it when you do that,¡± He¨¦l said, laying his head back on his hands and fixing his gaze on the cloudless morning sky. ¡°It¡¯s not a thing to jest about ¡ª or play at.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, He¨¦l the philosopher, always mourning every stray blade of grass,¡± she retorted with a teasing smile. Yet her expression soon softened. She gazed awhile at his pale, freckled face with a greedy wonder, like a treasure-seeker savouring the gleam of a newfound gem.


    How can I love someone so different from myself?  she wondered. Her heart quickened with joyful bewilderment, which swept over her again without warning.  Where does this come from, stirring within me?


    She brought her face, round as a full moon, close to his and began planting soft kisses upon his nose and cheek.


    ¡°I love you,¡± she murmured, nestling into the crook of the elf-boy''s neck. He¨¦l withdrew his hand from beneath his head and tangled his fingers in her hair.


    ¡°I saw the Moon-Daughters last night,¡± he said after a pause, his voice drifting like a dream. ¡°They were clad in gowns woven from the shimmering veils of the Misty Wanderer.¡±


    He began to toy with a lock of her hair as though it were a mischievous thread unravelled from a cloak¡¯s seam. Yet there was something distant about his touch, as if his fingers wandered realms far from this world.


    A¨¦na shot upright in an instant.


    ¡°What?¡± she snapped, bristling.


    ¡°What¡¯s this now? Jealous of a vision lingering in my mind?¡± He¨¦l laughed soundlessly. ¡°Ah, A¨¦na, A¨¦na!¡±


    She opened her mouth to retort, but her words were drowned by Haar¡¯s sudden howl, echoing from the peaks above ¡ª a wailing, fierce cry, sharp as a blade slicing through the morning air.


    ¡°V¨¦lho.¡± He¨¦l rose to his feet, frowning as he cast a glance toward her. ¡°What could he want so suddenly?¡± Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°May Likho have blown him here!¡± she huffed, clearly vexed at the interruption of their unfinished conversation.


    Let those Moon-Daughters sit in his head no longer, at least for now,  she thought with defiant satisfaction, though.


    ¡°Come on!¡± He¨¦l urged, placing a steadying hand upon her back and gently nudging her forward. The girl calmed entirely. The touch of He¨¦l, now wholly absorbed by matters of the Pack, his dark-green eyes alight with flickering black embers, felt far more real and enduring than the dreamer who spoke grandly of mysteries beyond her understanding.


    For at times, it seemed to A¨¦na that there were two He¨¦ls, utterly different from one another. The thought was foolish, strange, and vexing.


    They were already climbing whenas the eastern wind tore through the thick wool of her hood, brushing her cheeks with icy fingers. She winced slightly but, with both hands clinging to the rocks, could not reach up to pull the hood tighter around her face.


    Glancing upward, she saw He¨¦l a yard above her, his hands and feet moving swiftly like a spider scaling stone, steadily ascending toward the summit where V¨¦lho awaited. A¨¦na was nimble and swift, yet she could never keep pace with him whilst climbing.


    Whence did such agility come in this dreamer, always with his nose buried in poetry and the musings of sages philosophers?


    Yet then ¡ª he was an elf, though she sometimes forgot it. Climbing flowed through his very blood.


    She lowered her head with a determined motion, her cheek nearly grazing the sharp curve of the rock.  Don¡¯t you dare look down,  she thought, hastening her movements.


    They were nearing their destination when, all at once, the rocks trembled like aspen leaves caught in a tempest. Yet it was no ordinary wind that caused them to quiver. Instinctively, A¨¦na pressed herself tighter against the stone face, her blood momentarily draining from tense fingers that dug into the limestone ridges with the strength of driven nails.


    The air thrummed, drowning out He¨¦l¡¯s shout.


    ¡°Hold fast!¡± she barely caught through the clamour.


    A shadow swept over them, darkening the pale grey of the limestone as though night had fallen in an instant, moonless and grim. A¨¦na tore her gaze from the stone before her nose and glanced cautiously behind. A wing, vast as an oak, beat the air beside her, crimson as dried blood.


    I¡¯ll fall.  Her heart raced, yet she did not shut her eyes. Barely blinking, she watched as the colossal dragon beast soared between the mountain clefts, bearing in its maw a young alder tree.


    She had never seen its like therebefore.


    Glancing upwards, she spied He¨¦l frozen in place, his form motionless save for the faint fluttering of his cloak, still caught in the dragon¡¯s fading wind.


    ¡°Still breathing?¡± she called, hauling herself up beside him, clinging to the rock face. ¡°What was  that Likho ?¡±


    ¡°Of the blood of the dragonmages,¡± he murmured in wonder, his gaze fixed upon the distant horizon where the creature had vanished. ¡° And I ¡ª who shall one day master dragons in the name of the Alder Lady. ¡±


    They lingered there awhile till A¨¦na lost patience.


    ¡°Move on!¡± she snapped. ¡°The beast¡¯ll be back any moment, probably lining its nest with those blasted alders.¡±


    Tearing her gaze from He¨¦l, she resumed her ascent up the rock face.


    Near the summit, the rocks grew more rugged, their folds forming paths of a sort, making the climb easier. A¨¦na led the way now, slowing her pace just enough to wait for the dawdling elven boy, lost once again in his queer thoughts. Her gaze, indifferent but restless, flicked upward along the trail carved into the rocky ridges. These outcroppings at the mountain''s feet were sometimes called the Fiery Gate of Gor Laran, for by nightfall, flames would spring forth unbidden from the limestone folds, summoned by dragon art. But now, freshly kissed by dawn, only ice crystals glittered upon the stone.


    Only when He¨¦l was directly behind her did A¨¦na press on, climbing swiftly until they crested the summit ¡ª the place where V¨¦lho dwelt and where, in Haar''s voice, he summoned his company to council. Thin alder shoots, gnarled and half-formed between shrubs and twisted thickets, grew among the frost-silvered stones. A weak but biting wind tugged at their bare branches.


    Emerging from the naked alders, as though for a true gathering of a wolfish pack, the band members appeared. Fourteen there were in all, though A¨¦na counted only half approaching the meeting. The rest roamed alone or in pairs, too far from the outcrop to heed V¨¦lho¡¯s call, dispatched on errands of their own.


    The girl drew nearer to the gathering, her gaze drifting slowly over the figures assembled there. All at once, it halted, fixing sharply upon a fragment of a face peeking out from behind Osgod''s ruddy head ¡ª a face handsome as that of a sylph prince, with an eye grey-blue as the tempered steel of a dagger, where the heavens themselves might find their reflection.


    Sag!  thought A¨¦na in astonishment. She glanced over her shoulder at He¨¦l, who met her eyes ere furrowing his brow at the sight of Sago.  So he¡¯s escaped from the dungeons of Grod G¨¦rlod! Always cunning enough to wriggle free...


    Curiosity gnawed at her, yet she did not approach the gnome, and neither did He¨¦l. Sag, second only to V¨¦lho in the Pack and vain in his unmasked wickedness, still nursed a grudge, holding them as worthless brats unfit for the band since that single instance, years ago, when they had dared defy him. A¨¦na harboured a flicker of fear toward him and preferred not to cross his path without good cause. Only Master Beech himself knew what Sag might still be willing to do to her and He¨¦l, were it not for V¨¦lho¡¯s protection.


    She shifted her gaze leftward, to a woman clad in a long black coat, her hair a grimy gold like a serpent of tarnished copper. The woman raised her hand then to silence the gathering. Jara. A¨¦na had admired her for as long as she could remember for being  ¡°unwifed¡±  to V¨¦lho. For though all reckoned her his wife, she was not in truth, least of all in the eyes of the chief himself.


    That chief now sat unmoving upon an alder shrub. A thin branch drooped before his face, slicing it in two between his long, inscrutable eyes, like a lightning bolt etched in wood. Though not old, his hair was entirely silver, save for a few strands the hue of grey-green steppe grass shoots. In nearly every way, V¨¦lho resembled Haar, who crouched stiffly at his feet, mirroring his master''s rigid bearing. They would oft say that V¨¦lho and Haar were one, able to share thoughts and even transform into one another. At times, A¨¦na doubted the truth of it, yet now and then, it seemed plausible ¡ª though never had she witnessed such a change with her own eyes.


    At Jara¡¯s signal, the murmured conversations dwindled to silence. V¨¦lho leapt soundlessly from the branch, landing beside Haar''s feet to begin the council. His pale-grey face, as ever, struggled to convey any discernible emotion, yet A¨¦na thought she detected an unusual glint of satisfaction lurking there.

 5. Wolves Bare Their Fangs part 2

    Chapter 5


    Wolves Bare Their Fangs


    ¡ªPart the Second¡ª


    "The wolf has howled. How shall ye answer, Pack?" The chief''s voice, calm yet as sharp and strong as the clash of steel, carried through the gathering, borne upon the wind towards the Dragon Mountains. His gaze swept over their faces, and Haar¡¯s eyes followed in its wake.


    "We heed the wolf¡¯s call!" the Pack roared in unison.


    "And who shall ne''er betray the wolves?"


    "The wolves shall shield that one!"


    "But he who breaks faith and silence..."


    "Shall be delivered unto the wolves, and by wolves shall be avenged!"


    A thin smile pressed itself tightly upon V¨¦lho¡¯s lips, as though he sought to swallow it whole. His hands slid beneath the folds of his cloak and into the pockets of his trousers as he began to pace slowly within the circle that the Pack had unconsciously formed around him.


    "Loyalty and secrecy ¡ª grave matters, these," he said, his voice lower now, imbued with a strange, concentrated fervour. "Graver still shall they become from this day forth. Of what we shall speak here ¡ª let no breath escape your lips! Else I myself shall set the wolves upon ye..." His tone turned brisker. "But first ¡ª aye, I have summoned you to share my joy. Our comrade Sago has returned, having slipped so nimbly from the grasp of justice of our very beloved Master..." A sardonic grin curled at the corners of his mouth. "All the more commendable, for that Master is no longer a sluggish old codger but a fierce whelp, whose hatred for us burns hotter still."


    V¨¦lho laced every word with mockery, and A¨¦na was certain that though the wind-swept rocks atop the crag might have shown more emotion than he, his inner contempt ran deeper still. He had no love for Ferlo, but none in the Pack doubted his loathing for Gerod.


    The chief cast a meaningful glance towaro, who laughed brazenly and raked his fingers through his hair.


    "Bah, no feat at all, wolf-lord," Sag scoffed. "The bars of the Citadel dungeons are as rusted and rotten as the guards of their so-called justice. A greenhorn could outwit them."


    "Don¡¯t be so modest," rasped Osgod, clapping Sago on the shoulder. "The wolf-lord speaks true. Gerod is no Ferlo. His guards know the bite of fear and snap to attention when he passes. I had quite the toil of it myself fetching news at the Gates."


    "And those tidings, moreover," V¨¦lho interjected, turning back to Sago, "thou hast finally rendered useful to us." His satisfaction now shone plain, rare as it was. Lightning-bright gleams flared in his pale green eyes, a sight so uncommon that even Haar cast a startled glance at his master, puzzled by such uncharacteristic vitality. A¨¦na nearly quivered with curiosity. She exchanged glances with He¨¦l, then awaited V¨¦lho''s next words with impatient eagerness.


    "We all know from Osgod that Gerod has lately found himself some new trinket in the Alchemy Fortress. Supposedly valuable, perhaps even most intriguing ¡ª at the very least, one worth enough for our beloved Master to sacrifice much. And we also know that he''s now beside himself with rage, for before he had the chance to play with his toy, someone whisked it right out from under his nose."


    Aye, they all knew it well. A¨¦na had been with V¨¦lho, sitting in the grotto atop the crag, when Osgod returned just over a week ago, his hair matted like withered reeds, his brow slick with sweat, and his ragged clothes dirtier than usual, as though he''d sprinted across the steppe from Grod G¨¦rlod. Without even catching his breath, he had gasped out the tale ¡ª that the Gates rang with Gerod''s fury, for the High Druid had spirited away that which belonged to gnomes, and now war was certain.


    From the first, V¨¦lho had regarded the news with suspicion. He had always maintained that Nol was no fool, and this time was no exception. He did not believe Nol guilty of making the mysterious treasure vanish, and now his doubt was about to be confirmed.


    "And as of today, thanks to Sag, we now know where Gerod¡¯s precious trinket lies," he said softly yet solemnly, as though some long-held expectation within him had at last come to fruition. "Sago?"


    At that, Sag stepped forward. Standing beside V¨¦lho, he drew something from the inner pocket of his cloak and placed it upon a flat stone that served as their table during councils. All heads craned forward with curiosity. A¨¦na, the smallest of the pack, braced her hands on He¨¦l¡¯s shoulder and bounced on her toes, trying to peer past Sago¡¯s back. Failing that, she sidled between Lor and Osgod, worming her way to a better vantage.


    In Sago''s hands lay a crumpled roll of reed papyrus, soiled and singed. At last, as he spread it upon the stone and smoothed it with a flattened palm, she glimpsed it clearly.


    Must¡¯ve pulled it from the fire , she thought with unbidden admiration for Sago¡¯s skill ¡ª he had a knack for plunging his hands into flames as easily as one might into water. Her gaze returned to the scroll. Its twisted script glimmered in black ink, like tangled branches under moonlight.


    "What in Likho are those scorched runes you¡¯ve dug up? What¡¯s it supposed to be?" Lor guffawed stupidly. A¨¦na cocked her head, glaring at him with disdain.


    Even a dolt like Lor ought to know wolf-tongue when he saw it.


    Lor reached to snatch the papyrus for a closer look, but Jara smacked his outstretched hands with a force far from gentle.


    "Hands off!" she growled. "Let Sago speak!"


    Sag swept his hand across the papyrus once more.


    "I bolted straight from the Citadel, up into the forest. A paltry watch they keep, for there¡¯s precious few folk left stationed there. As I said, the place is nought but a heap of rust and mouldering stone ¡ª its glory long since perished. Only a handful gave chase, those I hadn¡¯t already dealt a knock on the way out. But there¡¯s yet to be a man born who can catch me in the wilds." He grinned from ear to ear, brimming with his usual brazen satisfaction. "And the night was thick with cloud, so I made it to the waterfall without trouble. There, as you well know, none can lay a hand on you."


    "I crept between the rocks. Took me a while to find the path, but every stone has its tale under the hand, and mine remember well. I found it soon enough and followed it along, when my nose caught wind of something strange.


    "I was as surprised as a hundred Likhos ¡ª fire! At first, I thought it must¡¯ve been smoke lingering from the woods, but no, my nose isn¡¯t prone to falsehoods. I left the path and headed toward the scent. Erelong, light began seeping through cracks in the rocks ¡ª at first faint, then growing ever stronger. I softened my tread, slipping into foxlike stealth. And then I heard a voice. Speaking the common tongue, but soft and lilting, much like the speech of sylphs. I pressed my eye to a crevice.


    "The first thing I saw was a wolf ¡ª black as pitch, with alder twigs sprouting from its thick pelt. A stunning beast, I tell you! I rubbed my eyes twice over! By the hundred storms, I still can''t believe such creatures yet roam. Had wolf-lord not confirmed it, I¡¯d swear I¡¯d dreamed it." This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    V¨¦lho nodded gravely, his face taut with contemplation. A¨¦na narrowed her eyes, hoping they''d speak more of the wolf, but the chieftain kept his silence, and Sago carried on.


    "Then I saw there was a figure behind the wolf ¡ª the one speaking. Tall enough, clad in a green cloak that swept the ground."


    "A sylph-blooded bastard!" Osgod cut in, his long, gaunt nose wrinkling with excitement. "Gerod''s counsellor! Did you see his face? They say no soul in the Gates has ever laid eyes on it!"


    Sag ran his hand over the papyrus once more.


    "I saw a bit ¡ª just what the dim, flickering fire allowed. He¡¯s no stripling, that much was plain; hair black as that wolven beast''s pelt. At first, I doubted he was Gerod¡¯s mage. Thought him some common druid or wandering philosopher. But then I pricked up my ears, hoping to catch their talk. Just then the wolf spoke ¡ª grinding out words in wolfspeech so rough I scarce understood them.


    ''So ye knew, my lord, that the bauble was not in N¨¦lchod¡¯s tower? And ye know, then, who took it from there?'' says he.


    ''You pry too much, meddlesome wolf,'' the other answers, slow and lilting, as though spell upon spell curled off his tongue. Strange voice it was ¡ª one you might follow to the world¡¯s edge if you¡¯d no sense in your head. ''That¡¯s no business of yours,'' he goes on, ''to puzzle over. Your task is to find for me where it now lies. For the one Gerod suspects ¡ª he¡¯s neither there nor ever laid so much as a finger on the Dagger. Too weak for such deeds, he always was.''


    "I couldn''t make out his face clearly, but you could hear the smile in his voice ¡ª mocking, sly. ''Ever was,'' he said.


    "Then, after a pause, he pulled this" ¡ª Sag tapped the papyrus beneath his hand ¡ª "out from beneath his cloak.


    ''Take this,'' he tells the wolf. ''It¡¯s all writ down here in your tongue, though wrapped in riddles you¡¯ll never unravel yourself. Seek the Philosopher of the Alder Lady. Question him. Bid him solve it. Then return swift with what you learn.''


    ''But mark my words,'' he adds, ''if this riddle falls into eyes or ears other than yours and that philosopher¡¯s, I shall show no mercy.''


    "The wolf spread the scroll open with his paw, and from the side, I saw him bare his fangs in a grin.


    ''My memory¡¯s sharp, my lord,'' he growls. ''Sharp enough to know that ere long this parchment shall burn in the fire.''


    "The mage nodded, seemingly pleased. But then the black beast asked, ''Why seek ye N¨¦lchod¡¯s Dagger now, my lord? So many years ye¡¯ve had no care for it.''


    "Foolish question, that ¡ª and it set the mage ablaze with fury." Sag laughed, still relishing the wolf''s misfortune. "He didn¡¯t lay a finger on the beast, stood as still as a post, but his face turned white as the moon, and the fire hissed like nothing I¡¯ve ever heard. Even the wolf whimpered and crouched low before him.


    "I stared into the flames for a moment. Not just hissing, mind you ¡ª the fire moved like a living thing, as though blood flowed from its very heart. Strange craft, their spells and tricks... I once met a fellow who swore all such things bent to laws of matter, though laws only they know...


    "When I looked back for the mage, he was gone. Vanished, the scoundrel. A sylph-born Likho if ever there was one!" He spat, though not without grudging awe.


    "The wolf glared at the papyrus for a spell, then snatched it in his jaws and tossed it into the fire. I cursed him, trying to make him flee before it burned ¡ª taking down a wolf¡¯s no easy feat. And that was that. To us, a scroll; to the beast, nought but a scrap. Thought the fire would devour it in a blink, didn¡¯t care to wait.


    "He vanished from sight, so I leapt into the fire to save what I could. A bit fearful, mind, lest the mage was lurking about, watching. But blast it all ¡ª I took my chance. And here it is." He pointed to the papyrus and turned his foxlike grin toward V¨¦lho.


    He has a comely face,  thought A¨¦na unexpectedly, stealing a glance at Sago.  Were it not for He¨¦l, one might well fall for him,  she added with a crooked, playful smile.


    The chieftain nodded again, lost in thought awhile ere his gaze settled firmly on the papyrus.


    "So, you see for yourselves, my Pack," he said. "At last, we¡¯ve a chance to lay hands on something truly precious. The N¨¦lchod Dagger ¡ª the very treasure for which Gerod is now willing to lay waste to half the Land."


    "Then what are we waiting for?" Lor blurted eagerly. "Let¡¯s grab the trinket and wave it in Gerod¡¯s face!"


    The pack jeered at him in unison, yet V¨¦lho raised a commanding hand to silence them all. His tone grew grave.


    "It¡¯s not that simple. This isn¡¯t some order for the town guard, scrawled plain enough for any dullard to follow. It''s a riddle for the chosen few. Even the mage himself didn¡¯t crack it ¡ª else he wouldn¡¯t risk sending the wolf. I am but a mere wolf-lord, I read the words well enough, yet I know nought of philosopher¡¯s tomes or their tongue... He¨¦l? Have a look."


    At once Sago¡¯s face darkened. Pressing his hand firmly against the papyrus, he glared at V¨¦lho.


    "You¡¯d hand to that elf-pup what I braved the flames to fetch?"


    V¨¦lho quelled him with a single sharp look, then took the scroll from the table and handed it to He¨¦l. The boy brushed his hair from his brow and, with his usual unhurried grace, reached for the papyrus. He studied it for a long moment ere speaking.


    "It¡¯s the wolf-tongue of philosophers."


    Sag snorted like a wild horse, muttering, "Elf-genius," under his breath.


    The chieftain, rare impatience roughening his voice, grumbled:


    "That much we already know."


    He¨¦l smiled gently.


    "What it means," he said, "is that this is a most peculiar riddle. Everything within it is cloaked in metaphor, poetic imagery that speaks nought plainly. True, that¡¯s the nature of any cipher, yet in the riddles of philosophers, the metaphors are far more intricate and fanciful. It¡¯s a play of language. Moreover, these aren¡¯t mere simple symbols; they call upon deep knowledge from many fields. Thus, no common mind could ever hope to decipher them."


    "And you,  oh uncommon one , will surely unravel it for us, eh?" Sago mocked, adjusting the collar of his doublet. "Just my luck ¡ª all my toil gone to waste, dashed by foolery! I might as well have chased after that wolf myself and followed him right to the philosopher¡¯s door."


    "You¡¯d catch a wolf, would you?" snorted Jara, though without malice. Whenas she did jest at Sag¡¯s expense, it was alway tempered by the blunt but honest fondness she bore him. They got on well enough ¡ª or at least respected each other, which was perhaps of greater worth among their band. "More likely you¡¯d just end up clutching at his tail."


    Sag curled his lip, ready with a retort, but V¨¦lho silenced them both with a stern gesture.


    "What do you think, He¨¦l?" he asked. "Can you read it?"


    "Maybe," He¨¦l said, his eyes still fixed on the papyrus. "But I¡¯ll need time."


    "How long?"


    "I can¡¯t say... Even the translation will yield more than one version. The same words can be interpreted differently, and different metaphors woven from them. Every line, every single word here carries meaning and links to the next. And when I¡¯ve fashioned it into a verse, I may not even find the answer myself. I¡¯ll have to search the philosophers'' library, pour through books and lexicons ¡ª perhaps even break into a restricted one to grasp it fully..."


    "How long, then?" pressed V¨¦lho impatiently.


    "Don¡¯t be a fool, wolf-lord!" Sag cut in again. "Doesn¡¯t take a swollen-headed whelp to see why that wolf was sent to a seasoned thinker. By the time he puzzles out a single line of this riddle, the others¡¯ll have the treasure clutched in their paws."


    "Watch your tongue!" snapped A¨¦na, leaping to He¨¦l¡¯s defence. "He knows more about philosophy than most!"


    Her heart skipped a beat as it always did when she dared oppose Sago.  What is it about him that makes me tremble so?  she thought angrily, vexed at herself. She despised being afraid.


    "Hold thy sweet tongue, wench!" Sag sneered at her with mocking disdain. "No one asked for thy counsel!"


    He¨¦l cast a glance at A¨¦na, smiling indulgently as though to gently chide her for meddling needlessly. She scowled, then snorted under her breath, wounded by his condescension.


    "In part, I find myself agreeing with Sago," He¨¦l said calmly to V¨¦lho. "Even if I manage to glean some sense from this riddle, it may all be for nought if we¡¯re already too late."


    "We''ve no other choice; no other course lies open to us," V¨¦lho answered after a moment''s thought. "Read what you can, as swiftly as you can. Time lost is the only danger here... And this matter is far too precious for me to abandon."


    "I shan''t let such a chance slip by..." he murmured then, more to himself than to the rest of the band, his eyes once again flashing with lightning.


    Satisfaction? Vengeance? Or perhaps something else ¡ª something A¨¦na could not fathom.


    <hr>


    By night, as she drifted off to sleep, A¨¦na could hear He¨¦l muttering to himself in that peculiar way of his:


    ¡°The Philosopher of the Alder Lady¡­ The Lady of the Alders¡­ Surely not  that  one¡­ Gnomish poppies, poppies turned gnomish, poppies now yellow¡­ Beloved was late, love was late, serpent, viper¡­ The same¡­ All the same¡­ The same lover, the same love¡­¡±


    <hr>


    The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,


    That which never was.


    It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,


    Twin-born, echoing love.


    When behind the mist the father¡¯s eye turns,


    A wheel ever circling,


    When the moon of the lover doth rise,


    Twin flames in mirrors burn,


    And the Lady of Song dances.


    The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,


    That which never was.


    It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,


    Twin-born, echoing love.


    The Lady of Song and the Lady of Ring


    Gaze into the mirror of sorrow.


    Gaze into mirror, and in that glass


    See the door to castle of love.


    The poppies now yellow, and love come too late,


    That which never was.


    It sank into earth like a coiled serpent,


    Twin-born, echoing love.

 6. Who Stirs the Cauldron of the Lake? part 1

    Chapter 6


    Who Stirs the Cauldron of the Lake?


    -Part the First-


    When their mother was still in the fullness of her strength, their family¡¯s life had resembled an endless journey. Jyr¨¦ oft dreamt of it. The places where they had once dwelt blurred together in his dreams, shifting one into the other like vivid, bright stains sometimes seen in the darkness. He dreamt of his mother as well, as fair and kind as she had been in life.


    Mother was never like Father,  he thought upon waking. He lay still for a moment till he felt eyes upon him. Peering through a narrow slit between his eyelids, he saw them ¡ª two eyes, long and brown, like cracks on birch bark.


    ¡°What are ye gawping at?¡± he huffed, yanking the quilt clumsily over his head.


    ¡°Gawping,¡± Fet echoed, standing motionless beside the bed, his expression as blank as ever.


    A tuft of white thistle down slipped free from the linen sheath and tickled Jyrcho¡¯s nose. With an irritated snort, he flung the quilt aside and glared at his younger brother. Fet¡¯s fringe, pressed flat by a hat pulled too tightly over his head, hung like a shaggy curtain over his brows and part of his eyes.


    ¡°Is Father home?¡±


    ¡°Home,¡± Fet repeated, shifting his gaze to the beam of sunlight streaming through the east-facing window. Dust motes danced within that golden light like Moon-Daughters, and Fet watched them with sudden fascination.


    ¡°Why do I even bother¡­¡± Jyrcho muttered, rolling his eyes. He rose sluggishly from the bed, shuffling towards the water pail near the window.


    ¡°Oi!¡± protested Fet as Jyrcho¡¯s silhouette blocked the light. Jyrcho cast a sour glance over his shoulder, yet Fet still stood there awhile, seemingly waiting for his brother to move. When nothing happened, he shrugged faintly and dashed off towards the kitchen.


    Jyrcho bent over the basin and splashed his face with water. He shivered from head to toe, but the chill banished the last remnants of sleep from his cheeks. The elf-boy pushed the shutters wide open with a resolute hand. A startled waxwing took flight from the beech branch, diving down towards the earth. Resting his hands upon the window frame, Jyr¨¦ followed the bird with his gaze until his eyes caught sight of F¨¦v¡¯s crimson hat and her shoulders wrapped in a russet cloak. Beside her walked Al, his cloak embroidered at the edges with beech leaves. Together, they made their way down the road that wound deeper into the forest.


    Jyrcho grinned to himself, then turned away from the window and also made his way to the kitchen room.


    His father sat at the table, cleaning a blowpipe for glass-blowing. A stray lock of hair, pale as golden grass blades, fell across his even paler brows and faded yellow eyes. Only F¨¦ven had inherited those eyes from him. In all else, they were so unlike their father that Jyrcho often wondered whether they were truly his children.


    Especially he, Jyr¨¦ ¡ª was there  anything  of Jalo in him?


    He sprawled onto a bench by the table, legs splayed wide, and cast a sidelong glance at Fet. The younger boy had perched on the floor near the doorway to F¨¦v¡¯s herb room, turning his favourite toy ¡ª a glass orb their father had crafted for him some time ago ¡ª over and over in his hands. He could sit like that for hours, swaying to and fro, muttering nonsense to himself like daft.


    Though peaceable, that one,  Jyrcho mused. Reaching for a slice of dried apple, he snapped off a bit and addressed his father.


    ¡°Jalo?¡±


    Father murmured a curt ¡°Hmm?¡± barely lifting his gaze from the blowpipe.


    ¡°Not worried the bard¡¯ll spirit F¨¦v away?¡± Jyr¨¦ bared his teeth in a cheeky grin ere stuffing a generous chunk of apple into his mouth.


    Jalo¡¯s lips curved into a faint smile. Yes, F¨¦ven had inherited that too ¡ª his smile, knowing more than the whole world without ever turning spiteful.


    ¡°It¡¯s not her I fear for.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course, of course.¡±  Already vexing me, that tree sage,  Jyrcho spat inwardly  . He shoved another piece of apple into his mouth, chewing it like sticky pine resin. ¡°Only me left to fret over, aye? Daft as a moth, bound to get lost in the city on my own.¡±


    Father paused his work on the blowpipe at last and, lifting his gaze directly to Jyrcho, raised his brows.


    ¡°I never took you for a fool.¡±


    ¡°Then let me go to the City of Trees.¡± Jyrcho¡¯s eyes, already wide by nature, widened further with pleading. ¡°When Al leaves, I want to go with him.¡±


    Without a flicker of doubt, Jalo extinguished that brief spark of hope.


    ¡°Out of the question,¡± he replied calmly, lowering his gaze back to the blowpipe.


    Curse you...  Jyr¨¦ began inwardly, but held his tongue. He tossed the half-eaten slice of apple back onto the plate.  Lost my appetite, thanks to him.


    ¡°I¡¯ll soon be able to make my own decisions,¡± he declared.


    ¡°By then, perhaps...¡±


    Jyr¨¦ pursed his lips in irritation.


    ¡°...I¡¯ll have gained some sense, aye. Right, Father, back to the same old tune.¡±


    Jalo sighed, resting the blowpipe steadily across his knees ere turning back to Jyrcho.


    ¡°Forgive me, Jyr¨¦,¡± he said.


    ¡°Then let me go,¡± Jyrcho insisted stubbornly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not because I think you can¡¯t handle yourself ¡ª you know that.¡±


    ¡°Oh, aye, aye.¡± Jyrcho arched his brows lazily and drummed his fingers against the edge of the bench in feigned boredom. ¡°Something about the druidic guard and those childhood tales of swords that burn to the touch ¡ª aye, I remember. And those bad memories you shared with Mother from S¨¦n Ser¨¦n, the ones you never spoke of so as not to grieve her. But it¡¯s been ten years since she¡¯s gone, and you  still  won¡¯t breathe a word about what those memories were.¡± Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°I shall tell you,¡± said Jalo simply.


    Jyr¨¦¡¯s mouth twisted into a sceptical grin.


    ¡°When? In the next age? You¡¯ve said that before, and nought ever came of it.¡±


    At that, Jalo rose, setting the blowpipe aside near the hearth. He flung his cloak over his shoulders.


    ¡°Perhaps even today,¡± he promised unexpectedly. ¡°But later. I¡¯ve got to go to the glasshouse now ¡ªneed to ready the display for the festival. Fet¨¦n!¡±


    Fet froze where he was, ears pricking like a woodland animal''s, listening for some further word he might comprehend.


    ¡°The glasshouse. We¡¯re off,¡± Jalo added. Fet obediently stood and followed.


    Oh, he listens to Jalo, does he? But me? He¡¯d stick out his tongue like the little halfwit he is,  thought Jyrcho. Once they were gone, his thoughts drifted back to his father¡¯s promise.


    ¡°Aye, he¡¯ll tell me, right,¡± he muttered under his breath, resuming his meal. ¡°I¡¯ll make  sure  he does.¡±


    <hr>


    Yet Father, once shut in his workshop, did not emerge until the very time of the festival, and Jyrcho knew well enough that pestering him there would be a futile endeavour. Fet returned alone in the early afternoon, the sun still bright in the sky, and promptly latched onto F¨¦ven¡¯s skirt as she busied herself preparing herbs for the drinks. Soon after, she gathered a great bouquet of dried stems, blossoms, and berried twigs, and made her way towards the lakeshore, where the revelries were to be held upon the great stone slabs. Fet followed her like a shadow. He was more attached to F¨¦v than even to Jalo. She alone, it seemed, understood him ¡ª at least in part ¡ª though Jyr¨¦ ofttimes wondered how that was even possible.


    Jyrcho, for his part, was neither eager to take part in the preparations nor particularly able to find himself a task among them. Wandering aimlessly along the lakeside, he eventually drifted away from the stone slabs. Whether he sought to kill time by circling the lake or intended to track down Al, he himself hardly knew. Where the bard had vanished to, he had no inkling.


    The far shore, opposite the settlement, was wilder, overgrown with thick brambles of raspberry and blackberry that stretched right to the water''s edge. At this hour, the trees leaned low over the lake, their branches casting deep shade. The boughs trailed so near the water that they seemed like long, wispy tresses belonging to some maiden gazing at her reflection.


    Jyrcho was no keen observer of nature, nor one to notice subtleties, yet like many others in the village, he held the conviction that something strange lurked within that lake. Even F¨¦ven, for all her pragmatic ways ¡ª so much like their father, who saw no more of the world than was writ in books and dismissed tales of the Likho as utter nonsense ¡ª even she had sensed it at times.


    Now too, a dark shadow seemed to glide just beneath the water¡¯s surface. Pushing his way through the thicket, careful not to impale himself on thorns, Jyrcho kept his eyes fixed on the moving shape, striving not to lose sight of it and hoping to discern more.


    No tree could be casting that shadow, for he had already passed beyond the dense curtain of their nearly leafless crowns. No fish nor beast dwelled in this lake, for even they seemed to fear its strange depths. The lake tidecomers and marsh sylphs never ventured here, and none had ever encountered even a black-bog sylph, though the shape beneath the water reminded Jyrcho less of any creature and more of a Tree Child, too fluid in its movements to be a mere plant swaying underwater.


    It seemed as though it swept its hand back and forth ¡ª and held something within that hand¡­


    A sword?


    Jyrcho stared intently, moving slowly along the bank, his eyes narrowing as he strained to keep the shadow in view. He could not tear his gaze away ¡ª till suddenly, the dark form vanished.


    In that very instant, the branches rustled, and the few stubborn leaves that still clung to the ash tree quivered. From behind them emerged the sage storyteller Gath¨¦n, leader of the settlement, gliding upon a raft. He pushed himself along with a sturdy beech pole that jutted upwards like a spear or an upraised sword. His vivid green tunic gleamed in the shadow of the trees, lending cheer to the sombre air.


    "Jyrcho!" he called, swiftly spotting the boy by the water''s edge. "Will you lend a hand with the raft?"


    Jyr¨¦ tugged the hat from his head, where it had earlier snagged on a bramble branch, and rolled his eyes.  For once, Father¡¯s right,  he thought grudgingly,  mocking us for the fool fancies we share, like common prophetesses imagining nonsense.


    He made his way swiftly to the very edge of the bank, grasping the pole Gath¨¦n had levelled towards him. With a firm tug, he drew the raft closer. It drifted through sparse reeds, yellowed and rotting in patches, until it bumped gently against the shore.


    ¡°What brings you here, sage storyteller?¡± Jyr¨¦ asked with curiosity, catching the rope the man tossed to him. He tied it deftly to a low-hanging ash bough. ¡°The festival is nearly upon us.¡±


    ¡°Just so,¡± replied Gath¨¦n, sweeping aside a towering bulrush that stood nearly thrice his height as he stepped onto the bank. ¡°Your sister told me the last rowan¡¯s still bearing fruit on this side. Kyanna¡¯s got it into her head to weave sprigs of the Blind Mistress into her festival crown, so I promised I¡¯d fetch some for her. She¡¯s not F¨¦ven, after all ¡ª too frightened to venture past the lake herself.¡± He chuckled warmly. ¡°The waxwings will be pleased too ¡ª good for tales  and  for a nibble, those berries. I spotted the tree from the water. Look there!¡±


    Jyrcho cast a languid glance further along the bank, where the land rose gently to a solitary rowan tree, its red-berried clusters gleaming faintly even from afar. He knew that tree well ¡ª F¨¦ven was especially fond of it. She¡¯d once befriended and tamed Ledo, the hedgehog cart-puller, beneath its boughs. She had oft brought Jyr¨¦ here too, in times past.


    Gath¨¦n began to push his way through the thicket, striding briskly uphill toward the tree. Jyrcho trudged along behind him, though berry-picking was more F¨¦ven¡¯s sort of task, not his. Still, there was nothing better to do than keep the storyteller company.


    "And you," Gath¨¦n spoke after a moment, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at the elf-boy, "what are you seeking here?"


    "Al," Jyr¨¦ answered simply.


    "The guest of ours," he added, and Gath¨¦n''s face lit up as he understood whom the boy meant.


    "Ah, the bard. A fine fellow ¡ª easy to talk to, and with tales aplenty from the Land."


    They fell into silence, trudging onwards till they reached the rowan. They scaled the tree and Gath¨¦n drew a knife from its sheath to sever the fruit clusters, swift yet careful. One bunch, larger than the man himself, dangled heavily as he worked. Meanwhile, Jyrcho perched himself on a sturdy branch, legs swinging idly below. His gaze wandered to the lake, now sinking slowly into the grey veil of dusk. Thin wisps of dirty fog coiled lazily over its surface, twisting in the damp air. Not even the faintest whisper of wind disturbed the water¡¯s solemn, unyielding stillness.


    A sudden shiver coursed through Jyr¨¦, and he wrapped his woollen cloak more tightly about himself. He glanced at Gath¨¦n, who, clad only in a tunic, seemed utterly unaffected by the cold.


    I am doing nought but sitting,  Jyr¨¦ mused, puzzled by the chill gnawing at him. He rarely, if ever, felt the cold.


    Yet the thought was fleeting, eftsoons swept away by another.


    "Gat?"


    "Aye?" The storyteller cast him a fleeting glance, dropping the severed cluster down to the mossy forest floor. It landed softly upon the carpet of green.


    "Do you know why my father settled here, of all places? Leaving the Cave behind to build a glassworks here, in this wildwood?"


    Gath¨¦n smiled faintly under his breath. He wiped the blade of his knife against his trouser leg once, then again, ere sliding it back into its sheath. He settled himself upon the branch beside Jyr¨¦.


    "And how would I know? He''d tell you sooner than me, I reckon. Your father¡¯s a sensible man, more grounded than most, and his clear mind has served the village well many a time. He speaks fair with anyone and looks down on none, but a chatterer he¡¯s never been ¡ª nor is he now. As for what stirs in his heart, well, your mother was likely the only one who ever truly knew. He loved her dearly, that much everyone knew."


    He¡¯d have been a fool not to,  Jyr¨¦ muttered to himself.  No one could help but love Mother.


    "Well then, best be off," Gat declared after a pause, rising to his feet and preparing to descend. With some reluctance, Jyrcho slid down after him, though even the promise of merriment did little to quicken his step that day.


    Together, they grasped the rowan branch and, taking a roundabout route to avoid snagging it on the thick underbrush, made their way back to the water¡¯s edge. Gath¨¦n carefully laid the branch across the raft, whilst Jyrcho gripped the pole and thrust it against the lakebed with all his strength. Once they passed through the reeds, he angled the craft to the right, guiding it along the shore toward the village. Through the swirling fog, the flicker of firelight began to break through ¡ª bonfires and burning torches set between the lakeside stones, ready for the night¡¯s celebration.

 6. Who Stirs the Cauldron of the Lake? part 2

    Chapter 6


    Who Stirs the Cauldron of the Lake?


    ¡ª Part the Second ¡ª


    Upon setting foot ashore, Jyr¨¦ dashed over the rocks, his gaze searching at once for his father. The fire blazed ever brighter and higher, casting flickering shadows across the gathering. Soon enough, he spotted F¨¦v, steadily tending the flames with her serene, thoughtful expression. Her hair, bound by a pine-needle circlet tied neatly behind her ears, shimmered with the same hue as the flames themselves, seeming to dance alongside them in the gentle breeze. She felt her brother''s eyes upon her, lifted her gaze, and smiled, nodding in greeting. Jyr¨¦ waved back.


    Al, too, appeared without need for searching, wandering amidst the merriment of the gathering, a picture of good cheer. Fet, meanwhile, sat stiffly atop a tree branch, legs dangling like a puppet''s. In the dusk''s deepening shadows, his small figure was as black as pitch, save for the gleaming, covetous glint of his eyes. From a distance, one might mistake him for a catelf, rather than an elven boy. Yet Father? Nowhere to be seen.


    Gath¨¦n, having climbed from the low bank onto the rocky rise, now stood beside Jyr¨¦, steadying himself with the rowan branch as though it were a great staff. Above, three waxwings swooped and jostled, their wings brushing as they pecked greedily at the crimson berries. Kyanna burst from the throng with a wide grin upon her round face, snatching a sprig from the branch. Raising her voice to be heard over the joyful din, she called out:


    ¡°Father! Come now ¡ª they''re waiting for you to begin!¡±


    The storyteller chuckled as Kyanna swiftly wove the rowan sprig into her beechwood wreath and set it back upon her raven-dark hair. Gath¨¦n strode forward, melting into the crowd. His booming, resonant voice rang out, silencing the gathering for a spell as all turned to hear him.


    And thus, he began his tale:


    Mistress Pine    ,    the lofty lady, whose skin is dark as bark and eyes as black as smouldering coals, her hair a wild cloud of pine needles and twigs, loved from the dawn of time all that, in the mind of the Lord of Trees, was imagined to be water. The Lord of Trees, ever watchful, noticed how the solemn and sorrowful face of Mistress Pine would brighten with a rare smile when she dreamed of seas, rivers, lakes, mighty glaciers, and rains luminous as starfall. And so, he granted her leave to aid in their slow creation.


    At times, she astonished even him with her craft ¡ª for even the Lord of Trees, with his boundless genius and foresight, could still be surprised by his own creations. And though no Master might shape a soul, their mastery of matter is unmatched. And so Mistress Pine, from the smallest particles, wove lakes, rivers, seas, glaciers, and rain. For this, the tidecomers ¡ª  the  Wardens of Water ¡ª loved her above all other Children of the Trees.


    Yet once, Mistress Pine astounded the Lord of Trees anew.


    There was a lake-daemon, one who served nought but the Likho and dwelt amidst the marsh-marigolds. Oft did he rise above the water¡¯s surface, his head crowned with reeds and his dark thoughts circling like black butterflies above him, to mar Mistress Pine¡¯s designs and undo her works. He was no weak daemon, bearing strength and cunning aplenty. Yet, one day, a storm came upon the waters. The lake surged, and a bolt of lightning struck, wounding the daemon grievously and pulling him toward the depths.


    With no hesitation, Mistress Pine strode upon the waters ¡ª untouched by the lightning (a gift only later inherited by the vodyanoys) ¡ª and pulled the lake-creature from his fate. She healed him and, without judgement, let him go free. From that moment, she became the beloved of the Lord of Trees, for he understood that her spirit was pure and her mind truly comprehended his own. As a reward, he bestowed upon Mistress Pine the greatest gift of healing known to the universe, unmatched by any other being, to wield wisely in her boundless mindfulness.


    There was also   Master Beech    ,    the artist¡­


    "Father!" Kyanna interrupted eagerly. "You can finish the tale later ¡ª now let¡¯s be merry!"


    The storyteller grinned wide.


    "Very well, my impatient daughter! Welcome, then, Feast of the Night, when the Lord of Trees blesses the love of Master Beech and Mistress Pine, giving her to him as bride! Let us play and revel at their wedding!"


    "And these fruits of Mistress Spinner," he added with a jest, laying the bough of rowan with a grand flourish upon the great feasting table of thick pine wood, where space yet remained amidst the laden dishes, "shall be the first wedding gift for their bridal chamber!"


    "Come, dance with me, Jyrcho!" called Kyanna as Gat finished speaking and cheerful music rang out.


    "Wait," said Jyr¨¦ as the elf-girl tugged at his sleeve. "Later. Have you seen Father?"


    "But he¡¯s right here!" teased Kyanna. "You just came with him on the raft."


    Jyr¨¦ rolled his eyes, shaking his head in mock exasperation.


    "Jalo. I mean  my  father."


    The maiden laughed.


    "Oh, I know, I know. No, I haven¡¯t seen him. What do you want with him now?"


    "I¡¯ve a matter to speak of... And besides, I¡¯d rather change my clothes." He pulled the edges of his cloak apart and ran a hand across his wrinkled, rumpled shirt. "I¡¯ll dance with you after."


    Kyanna shrugged with a playful laugh.


    "Fair enough," she said lightly, darting back towards the bonfire, where singing and dancing had already begun in earnest.


    At home, Jyrcho found no sign of his father either, and he had no desire to go searching through the workshop for him. F¨¦v and Fet¨¦n chased after him there oft enough ¡ª he had no wish to share their honour of standing by the smelting furnaces, waiting for a moment of Jalo''s attention.


    Whenas he returned to the shore, clad in a deep blue, festive tunic and a dark green hat embroidered with cypress branches, Jyr¨¦ made straight for the table and heaped his plate with boiled beech nuts and fried dandelion blossoms.


    "What¡¯s going on?" he asked the folk sitting by the table, their curious eyes fixed on the scene unfolding by the bonfire.


    "Your bard¡¯s about to play, I reckon," answered Od, a lad from a neighbouring tree, well known to Jyr¨¦.


    Jyrcho poured a thick drizzle of pine shoot syrup over his beech nuts and ladled himself a cup of wild forest cider from the cask ere dropping onto an empty seat beside Od. His gaze wandered to Al, who sat by the fire on a large, round birch stump that could seat several creatures at once. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "Do you know  The Song of the Blind Spinner,  sage bard, since we¡¯ve all been feasting on rowan?" asked Ada, Gat¡¯s wife.


    "Of course I do," said Al brightly, reaching for his lute. One of the waxwings flitted down at once, perching on the stump behind him, peering curiously over his shoulder, drawn by the enchanting hum of the strings.


    "Wait!" someone from the gathering called out, halting Al. "Since it¡¯s about the Spinner, F¨¦ven must dance for us ¡ª it¡¯s her Mistress-Mother after all, and she¡¯s her only child in our village."


    F¨¦v smiled softly, first to herself, then at Al. Casting off her hooded cloak, she stepped barefoot onto the smooth stones, her pale tunic and beech-leaf skirt rustling faintly. Al struck up the melody and eftsoons began to sing, his voice weaving magic through the night air.


    It was unlike anything Jyrcho had ever heard. He had listened to many woodland and meadow musicians during his family¡¯s wanderings, but none came close to what Al achieved. His playing was as light as the wind¡¯s breath, as though it were not fingers upon strings but crickets and grasshoppers leaping across a summer field. It seemed as though Al himself floated above the earth, and that the entire forest ¡ª nay, all of nature, the whole universe ¡ª played in harmony with him.


    To be like him. Free...  thought Jyrcho wistfully.


    "Ah, your sister..." Od muttered suddenly.


    "What about my sister?" Jyr¨¦ snapped, irritated by the intrusion.


    "Well, she¡¯s beautiful..."


    Jyr¨¦ wasn¡¯t sure if F¨¦v was beautiful. She wasn¡¯t an extraordinary dancer either, not like the meadow dancers he had also seen during their wanderings. Yet as he watched her move upon the stone slab, her steps as unbound as Al¡¯s music, there was something about her that drew every gaze, holding it fast.


    "Perhaps I¡¯ll dance with her," Od mused. "What d¡¯you reckon? Will she agree?"


    "Leave her be," Jyr¨¦ said curtly. "F¨¦v¡¯s not for you."


    Draining his cider in one swift gulp, he rose from the bench. "I¡¯ll dance with my sister myself."


    With his hands shoved into his pockets, he strode toward the bonfire.


    "Al, play something merrier than that woeful Spinner¡¯s song!" Jyr¨¦ called out.


    Al laughed heartily and eagerly shifted to a livelier tune, as though it suited him well. The village musicians joined in with cheerful harmony, and F¨¦v darted toward Jyr¨¦, pulling him into the dance. Soon the stone clearing filled once more, and the circle around the bonfire tightened as more dancers joined in.


    "You¡¯re beguiling Od again," Jyr¨¦ whispered to F¨¦v after a while.


    His sister laughed light-heartedly.


    "What am I doing? Where do you learn such amusing words, brother?"


    "Come on, let¡¯s go there!" He tugged her gently by the hand toward a fallen beech whose trunk stretched from the high bank down to the lake¡¯s surface, like a makeshift bridge. "It¡¯s crowded here, and I want to talk."


    "About beguiling Od?" F¨¦v teased yet hopped nimbly after Jyr¨¦ onto the trunk without protest.


    "I¡¯ve always been honest with him. Od knows well enough that nothing will come of it," she added more seriously.


    Jyr¨¦ waved dismissively.


    "Not about Od. I¡¯m not trying to sway you toward him ¡ª or anyone, for that matter. You¡¯ll do as you please."


    They fell silent for a moment. F¨¦v leaned against a branch, watching Jyr¨¦ as he scuffed his boot against the decaying bark, peeling away a brittle strip.


    "What¡¯s with you?" she asked at last.


    Jyr¨¦ glanced up at her from beneath the tousled fringe of his dark hair.


    "With me?"


    "You¡¯re thoughtful," she said, her tone now earnest. "That¡¯s rare for you."


    Jyr¨¦ shrugged, then suddenly bristled.


    "F¨¦v, it¡¯s just... I really want to leave this place! I¡¯ve had enough of staying here! I want to join the guard ¡ª not just any guard, I want to go to the City of Trees!"


    "Ah, Jyr¨¦!" she said with a soft, teasing laugh. "Grow into your ambition first."


    "Sometimes you¡¯re just like Father..." Jyr¨¦ grumbled, kicking the stripped bark into the lake and leaning against the branch beside her. "Where is he, anyway?"


    "Where else would Jalo be?" she said with a smile, though her tone carried a weightier edge. "He¡¯s belike in his workshop."


    "F¨¦v, why does Father despise S¨¦n Ser¨¦n so much?" he asked after a pause.


    "I don¡¯t know," she said simply, turning her gaze to the lake. Not far from the trunk where they stood, near the low bank where during the Season of Mists and Droughts towering bracken grew wild, an ancient weir of brushwood and willow stretched across the water, long ago built by the Forest Folk. The moons illuminated it more brightly than the water, making it gleam pale against the dark expanse of the lake.


    "Doesn¡¯t it make you curious? Besides, you love learning¡ªdon¡¯t you want to study? Don¡¯t you want to break free from here? To go to the wise ones, the druids, the alchemists?"


    "I don¡¯t know," she repeated.


    "Is that all you  do  know?" he muttered impatiently.


    F¨¦ven glanced back toward the soft plash of water, as though a pebble had just been cast into the depths.


    "Sometimes I do," she said quietly. "And yet at times it seems that all I wish to know lies here, in this place. That nowhere else could I learn more than from Father."


    "Father, Father..." Jyr¨¦ grumbled, pushing off from the branch and pacing along the beech trunk. "And what does  he  know, anyway?"


    Then, lightening once more, he took her hand and spun her into a playful dance. "Do you remember the revel beneath Br¨¦ldan¡¯s Mountain? How we danced?"


    F¨¦ven nodded with a smile.


    "Those were better days," he said. "Mother was alive, and there was no Fet..."


    She cast him a reproachful glance. Jyr¨¦ rolled his eyes yet broke into laughter.


    They talked a while longer till the music softened, fading into the night. Moments later, Al appeared beside them, his lute slung across his back. He glanced around curiously, as though it were his first time atop the trunk. His gaze soon wandered upwards to the star-strewn sky.


    "Will Gat be telling tales?" F¨¦ven asked.


    "Aye," Al nodded, his eyes flicking toward her. " Master Beech, the goldsmith who roamed the deepest caverns... What¡¯s this bridge?" He gestured toward the weir.


    "Old, rotten, and rarely used," Jyr¨¦ said carelessly as the three of them stood facing the right-hand shore, looking down toward the water.


    "As we first came to the village," F¨¦ven said after a moment¡¯s thought, "I heard a tale of a boy who fell from that weir one night and nearly drowned. They pulled him out, but he''d broken his leg in some strange way during the fall. It never healed properly ¡ª or so folk said. Perhaps he had a poor healer, or perhaps nothing could be done. But the elves in the village have their own notions about this lake." She smiled faintly. "Since that tale, they¡¯ve feared setting foot on the bridge."


    "Al?" Jyr¨¦ asked suddenly, partly to break the silence, partly out of sudden curiosity. "Why d¡¯you wear a beechwood cloak, not a willow one?"


    Al laughed at the unexpected question.


    "My father was a beech," he said lightly, still staring thoughtfully at the old weir.


    <hr>


    Father at last emerged from his glassworks, long after many a tale had been spun, songs sung, conversations had, and after he and Od had savoured plenty of forest liqueur. The night was already deep whenas he appeared. Jyr¨¦ was taken thoroughly aback to see him stride towards the glass-light display, burdened with his tools and wares.


    This was not the Jalo he knew ¡ª the man who wore one set of grey, workshop-stained garments only to change into another of the same drear shade. No, tonight he was clad in a bright, clean tunic, festive in a manner so rare that only the scorch marks upon his hands betrayed his craft. Jyr¨¦ reckoned he had never seen his father like this before. Even his gait held a strange vivaciousness, something uncommon.


    Loaded with crystals, globes, and sheets of glass both small and large, Jalo leapt onto the raft with a flaming torch in hand. With a skilful push of the pole, he shoved off from the shore and drifted out onto the lake.


    The display was as well more magnificent than ever. Not that Jyr¨¦ had much fondness for his father¡¯s light-shows on the water ¡ª he had seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, over the course of his life. Yet even he had to admit that some newfound spirit had awakened in Jalo that night. It was as though he had ceased to be a mere glassmaker and become, all at once, an artist.


    As he deftly manoeuvred the crystals, the glass, the torch, and the radiant gleam of moons, night, and stars, light in every hue of the rainbow danced upon the water. Sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle, it formed silent fireworks in the air.


    Even he¡¯s come down from his tree,  Jyr¨¦ thought, catching sight of Fet, his little brother, racing to the far end of the fallen beech trunk. Out of curiosity, Jyr¨¦ followed, weaving through the crowd. Most of the villagers had gathered on the high shore, along the rocky edge or atop the fallen tree, hoping for a better view of the spectacle and, as custom dictated, to divine fortunes from the patterns of the lights.


    Eftsoons Jyr¨¦ stood at the very tip of the beech, right beside Fet. A chill wind swept across the lake, swirling in a circle.


    Should¡¯ve brought my cloak,  he thought, though it wasn¡¯t cold that troubled him. Instead, the wind set his head spinning, darkening his vision. Awhile, he couldn¡¯t tell whether it was the wind whirling, the lake itself, or Father twisting the torch ¡ª suddenly extinguished ¡ª or if it was the pole that spun as Jalo turned the raft.


    Or was it a sword tracing a circle around the raft?


    Od¡¯s liqueur,  he muttered inwardly.


    ¡°What¡¯s you?¡± Fet asked, staring at him like a post driven into the ground.


    ¡°Nothing I, nothing I,¡± Jyr¨¦ grumbled, shaking off the dizziness. He jerked his head toward the shimmering lights on the water. ¡°Watch Jalo¡¯s lights. Bother me not with silly questions.¡±


    The flames upon the lake flared anew, burning with greater splendour than before.

 7. The Thief on the Hunt part 1

    Chapter 7


    The Thief on the Hunt


    ¡ª Part the First ¡ª


    The meadows north of the blue-green waters of the Moon Dust Fjord and the winding courses of Hurlas seemed nought but a lifeless wasteland during the Season of Snows. Habel inwardly cursed the dry, bitter cold of the gnomish steppe. His face burned from the icy wind clawing beneath his hood. As always during flight, he grumbled about his faulty, stiff-winged appendage. Its only merit was that, reinforced by a prosthesis, it could unfurl and enable flight ¡ª though not without burdening the left wing with the brunt of the labour.


    ¡°For years they¡¯ve wandered from place to place like travelling merchants. Perhaps they seek to hide, or perhaps they flee ever from watchful eyes. Yet they show no great care in masking their presence. They and their children arrive at dusk, and by the time folk grow accustomed to them, they¡¯re already gone. They seldom tarry in towns but rather in small hamlets or the forest¡¯s deep hush,¡± ¡ª the words of the Sorcerer echoed in Habel¡¯s mind.


    The sun emerged from behind the clouds, but its warmth was scant ¡ª nothing more than a pale, wintry yellow, diluted by frost. At this time of year, even the hardy gnomes would find it difficult to survive upon the steppe, and so they dwelt not above the earth but beneath it, a fact Habel knew well.


    ¡°The cave, though ¡ª that was an exception. They lingered there, and for longer than usual.¡±


    At length, both the air and the landscape began to shift. Habel''s body, which had ever preferred the damp, stifling mugginess of the marshes from his childhood, easily sensed the approaching river''s moisture. After a time, the narrow line of a forest appeared faintly in the distance, stretching along W¨¦l¨¦r¨¦, one of the tributaries of the Hurlas.


    Two full quadrants had scarcely passed ere the sylph flew into the trees, clumsily weaving his way between them until he reached the river¡¯s edge.


    He flew slowly for several dozen yards, following the river''s current, casting watchful glances to either side. Here, the wind seemed barred from entry; dense trees flanked both sides of W¨¦l¨¦r¨¦¡¯s valley like sentinels of some woodland treasure trove, safeguarding its mystical tranquillity from disturbance. After a time, however, the forest to the right began to thin, and willows leaned ever more eagerly to gaze upon their reflections in the river¡¯s mirror-like waters. Whenas the forest marshes ¡ª known ¡®mongst the gnomes as the Willow Morasses ¡ª at last emerged from behind thick trunks, Habel knew he had reached his destination. The Lady of Gloams¡¯ Cave, the subterranean city of the Wardens of Earth, lay somewhere near, nestled by the river¡¯s embrace.


    But how was he to find its hidden entrance? It was sometimes said that the city was not guarded against strangers by a gnomish watch, but by a legendary ring of forgetfulness, wrought millennia ago by philosophers. Any traveller who entered the Cave would, upon departing, be unable to recall the location of its entrance. Whether there was any truth to such tales, Habel could not say ¡ª though even the Sorcerer himself did not know the city''s precise whereabouts. He had spoken only of the marshes.


    Habel alighted upon the branch of an oak. Rubbing the back of his hand against his red, frostbitten nose, he removed his prosthesis briefly to give his weary wing some respite, then cast his gaze about once more. The world stood frozen in stillness; no living creature gave the slightest sign of its presence. Silence reigned ¡ª the sort that Habel knew well from the labyrinths and dungeons of Nan Farlas, and from his own solitary dwelling among them.


    We¡¯ll wait,  he thought, standing rigidly upon the bough, folding his hands behind his back. He was well-practised in such waiting; it was no new thing to him.  Someone will come out, eventually.


    He stood thus for what might have been mere quadrants or entire hours, occasionally pacing back and forth along the branch to stave off the cold.


    Suddenly, the branches of the willow nearby began to stir faintly, despite the absence of any wind, and to murmur melodiously to one another. Habel furrowed his brow, fixing his gaze upon the tree. For a moment, it seemed not that the branches moaned, but that the willow itself sang a mournful, yearning song ¡ª and then, that it was not the willow, but a girl...


    Though he quickly dismissed the thought. Nonsense. It was but an ordinary tree, not enchanted in the least, merely expressing itself in its own way. Surprising in this stillness, perhaps, but not beyond belief.


    Foolishness. I''ve run out of things to think about,  he mused, casting the willow one last indifferent glance.


    It fell silent soon enough, and shortly thereafter, something entirely different drew Habel¡¯s attention ¡ª movement, swifter than that of any tree, and precisely what he had been waiting for.


    A dragon-winged dragonfly, its wings as translucent as those of the starry sylphs yet gleaming emerald-green like the depths of Hurlas, darted up from the river and traced a few loops above the ice-bound shore. Shaking itself free of water lest it freeze upon its body, scattering droplets like a fountain, it sped off among the trees opposite Habel, on the far side of W¨¦l¨¦r¨¦. The sylph, without a moment¡¯s delay, reaffixed his prosthesis and, launching himself from the branch, took to the air in swift pursuit.


    Go on then, tie knots on every blasted tree, foolish creature,  he grimaced in annoyance as the dragonfly zigzagged through the trees, spiralling round trunks and branches alike. He loathed aerial manoeuvres; they never came easy to him, particularly in cramped spaces where the trees pressed close, their boughs entwining. Instead, he kept to the river''s course, his gaze fixed on the darting creature, unwilling to let it slip from sight. Such dragonflies were hardy, yet even they could not survive long above ground during the Season of Snows. And since they oft worked for the gnomes, drawn by the warmth of their hidden cities, it was plain where this one was headed... The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    At last, they reached a tumble of boulders near W¨¦l¨¦r¨¦''s bank, several dozen yards to the southwest. A massive weeping willow cast its shadow over the stones, one of its thick roots burrowing deep between them, pointing towards a small crevice in their midst. The dragonfly skimmed along the root and, without hesitation, darted between the rocks. Habel¡¯s lips curled into a faint, apathetic smile as he dived after it.


    The willow root twisted through a dark corridor, lit only now and then by a solitary torch. The dragonfly had vanished from sight, yet Habel no longer cared. He was forced to land and continue on foot, for the passage had grown too narrow to allow flight. Removing his prosthesis, he folded it neatly and tucked it into the inner pocket of his cloak. With a grimace, he massaged his aching wing.


    Eftsoons, faint murmurs reached his ears, muffled at first but growing louder with each step. At length, great double doors loomed in the distance, wide open and beckoning. The root, now branching into several thinner tendrils, coiled around the doors instead of a traditional archway, snaking further into the depths of the city beyond. Habel''s smile returned as he adjusted his gloves over his webbed hands and drew his cloak more tightly around himself ¡ªdark brown like his wings, to keep them well concealed.


    In the Cave, he needed to be a gnome, not a sylph ¡ª especially not one a black-bog one.


    He strode up to the guards ere they had a chance to accost him.


    "Good day!" he called out briskly.


    "Good day!"  one of the guards echoed, his tone wary. There were two of them, and both regarded Habel with keen eyes, likely weighing whether his arrival in the city warranted suspicion. Habel stared back without flinching. Years spent as a motley, where the crowd served as his mirror, had taught him two truths: that he was as ugly as a dull night, but that with eyes as vast as full moons, he could, with a little effort, feign almost anything ¡ª including trustworthiness.


    "You''re not from the Cave," spoke the younger guard, curiosity softening his features into something bordering on friendliness. "I''ve got a sharp memory, mind. What I see, I remember. That¡¯s why they posted me here. I remember everyone. How¡¯d you get here?"


    "A stroke of luck," Habel answered calmly, his tone devoid of intrigue. "I saw a dragonfly fly in, so I followed." He cast a glance through the gates at the city beyond, though little could be seen save for a greenish glow. The settlement sank into the rock like a vast hollow gouged into the earth. "I''m looking for work ¡ª something that''ll let me bide a while here. The steppes are bitter cold this season. I heard the Cave is hidden but not sealed to strangers."


    "Who told you that?" the younger guard pressed, yet the elder silenced him with a curt wave of his hand and spoke instead.


    "Work, is it? And how are we to know what sort of vagrant you are? What forest mischief might you carry within you? Perhaps you¡¯ve come to plunder the city or charm our rocks with foreign dusts..."


    Yet then, as though reconsidering, he added, almost lazily, glancing past Habel through the gates, "Still, if you¡¯d come bearing something  useful , well... that would be a different matter. We might be inclined to help, perhaps offer advice or steer you toward work."


    Fools,  Habel thought silently, his face stony as he reached into his pocket and produced two coins.  For a golden oakling, they''d likely let in the imp king himself.


    The elder guard accepted the coins eagerly, making no particular effort to conceal them or worry about being seen. Habel suspected this was less a sign of foolishness and more a testament to how commonplace and accepted bribery likely was in the Cave.


    "So, what kind of work are you seeking?"


    "I''ve recently been working at a glassmaker''s furnace in a forest glasshouse," Habel replied smoothly. "I heard there might be need for such work here in your city ¡ª from Jalo, son of Jengo the gnomish guardsman and Maga the star-faring traveller," he risked adding, eyeing the younger gnome with veiled curiosity. "The very same who told me about the Cave."


    "Jalo! Aye, I remember him!" The guard brightened at once. "It¡¯s been over ten cosmic circuits since they left the Cave. His wife was  most  unusual ¡ª eyes like cornflowers... no, darker and deeper," he added, scrutinising Habel as though comparing Fe¨¦¡¯s eyes to his own.


    I know how she looks; I knew that wench well enough,  Habel thought, clearing his throat faintly. He despised it when people stared too long and openly at his face, though he¡¯d never let them see it bothered him. Folding his hands behind his back, he waited in silence for the guard to continue.


    "A wife with a babe in her arms ¡ª still but an infant. Two older ones besides: a lad who takes after her and a lass folk say¡¯s a sharp-witted little beast," the guard reminisced aloud. "Any notion where Jalo¡¯s got to now?" he asked with evident curiosity.


    I wish I knew that myself,  Habel thought, but instead he lied with ease, as though playing a well-rehearsed tune.


    "I met them at a settlement near the fords of Sar. That¡¯s where I was working last."


    "So they¡¯ve settled there, have they..." the guard mused aloud.


    "We¡¯ve a great glassworks here," the elder gnome interjected, clearly less enchanted by the talk of Jalo and growing impatient. "Might be work for ye, though you''d best speak with Jor¨¦n. He¡¯s likely to be sittin¡¯ in Gnod¡¯s tavern at this hour. Buy him a mug of cider, and he¡¯ll not only prattle on but likely hire ye on the spot."


    Habel inclined his head to show he understood.


    "Where¡¯s the tavern?" he asked.


    The guard stepped just past the gate, and Habel followed, casting a sidelong glance at the gate¡¯s great wing, adorned with painted designs of willow branches. In places, iron tendrils sprang forth from the grey wood like spears. Woven among the branches was a painted zither with floral embellishments, its form so light it seemed to float upward toward the heavens.


    "To the right." The gnome pointed with a steady arm. "Follow the path by the rocks. It dips lower after a stretch and widens into a proper road. You¡¯ll not miss the tavern ¡ª the hearth fire''s glow can be seen from afar."


    Habel nodded again, then moved further along, stepping onto a wide ledge that curved in a grand arc along the rock face, like a vast balcony. Resting a hand on the railing, he gazed downward at the panorama of this part of the Cave, nestled entirely underground. Though the scent carried the same comforting notes as the labyrinths of Nan Farlas ¡ª a fragrance deeply familiar to Habel ¡ª there was an airiness here, almost sylphlike. Perhaps it was the fresh, mist-like glow of pale green lantern light that swathed the city, akin to an eternal Season of Mists. Or perhaps it was the dragonflies, flitting in shimmering clouds through the luminescent air like dragons ¡®mongst mountains.


    A mighty willow bough plunged sharply downward nearby, branching thickly, with stairways carved into its trunk, allowing passage to the depths of the Cave. The city''s life thrived not only on its floor but also upon the high rock walls and their many ledges, encircling the cavern on every side.


    And they say gnomes are fearful of heights,  Habel thought wryly, shifting his gaze to the narrow, precarious path the guard had indicated earlier. It was guarded by a pitifully flimsy railing.  I should¡¯ve kept the prosthetic on.


    Without further hesitation, he set his steps toward the path, though.

 7. The Thief on the Hunt part 2

    Chapter 7


    A Thief on the Hunt


    ¡ª Part the Second ¡ª


    True to the guard¡¯s word, the tavern''s hearth was so vast that Habel glimpsed the fiery, dragon-hued glow long ere he reached it. The blaze crackled with an orange ferocity that made him grimace at the very thought of passing by it. He tugged his gloves snugly onto his webbed hands, bracing himself. Evening had fallen, and the tavern was filling up. From within came the faint strains of a zither mingled with the low murmur of voices.


    Inside, a heavy, enclosing gloom clung to the place. Dark wood panelled the tavern, lit only by a few weak torches whose flames burned with that same dragonish hue ¡ª fierce and foul.  This must be what the inside of a volcano looks like,  Habel mused, trying to mask the unease that gnawed at him whenever such a fire was near.  I wonder if it reeks of smoke there, too.


    In the centre of the room, beside a smaller, closed hearth, sat a zitherist ¡ª a red-haired maiden clad in a coarse, mossy-green dress. The zither lay upon the bench before her, and she played with an absent, dreamlike focus, as though the life bustling around her were but a distant echo.


    She seemed strangely luminous here, amidst the gnomish sneers and sidelong glances, so much so that Habel found himself staring. He slipped onto an empty seat by the wall, his shadowed form melting into the dimness. The narrow, green-tinted panes of the nearby window darkened the room further rather than letting in light.


    Erelong, a gnome shuffled up to the zitherist, clad in an equally coarse and frayed cloak. He looked like some caricature of the Spruce Master, and Habel thought he might well be his gnomish incarnation, with a long beard the colour of spruce bark that nearly swept the floor, a lean, hunched frame, and eyes as dark as coal beneath thick, conjoined brows.


    As he stood beside her, the zitherist paused, lifting her head, though she did not turn toward him. Instead, she seemed to listen intently. Her blue eyes were veiled, cloudy like the gossamer wings of sylphs.


    Blind!  Habel thought with surprise, straining his bat-like hearing to catch their conversation ¡ª or rather the gnome¡¯s harsh, hostile whisper as he leaned toward the girl.


    "Play something livelier or clear out! The guests are complaining. You¡¯re as dreary as a tomb."


    The zitherist showed no fear whatsoever. Instead, she bared her white, even teeth in a smile.


    "But we  are  in a tomb," she said. Habel was startled by these words, though the gnome seemed to accept them as entirely reasonable or self-evident. "You don¡¯t understand, Gnod ¡ª neither you nor your foolish guests. The sorrow of a zither is worth more than its joy."


    "Do as I say and stop prattling!" Gnod barked, then strode off with swift, sweeping steps toward the counter, the back of his cloak flaring behind him like a banner in the wind. The maid''s sightless gaze followed him awhile, then she resumed playing ¡ª this time a livelier tune.


    So that was Gnod, the tavern keeper,  Habel mused. Yet an idea struck him suddenly ¡ª it might be safer, and draw less attention, to ask the girl about Jor¨¦n instead. She seemed sharp-witted, and her blindness was an advantage: one less witness to remember his face or presence.


    He tugged at his gloves once more, then slipped over to the thick pillar behind the zitherist, leaning his back against it. His figure melted once again into shadow, whilst the flicker of a torch fixed to the pillar cast light upon the maid''s red hair, woven into a braid.


    Habel stood just behind her, yet she neither turned nor showed any sign that she''d heard him. Her playing continued, steady and unbroken. He realised he had no notion of how to begin speaking with her.


    "I preferred it when you played mournfully," he said at last.


    He felt rather than saw the gnome-maid bare her teeth in another grin.


    "Still, I shall play as I am now, if you don¡¯t mind," she replied. "If I change the tune or stop altogether, they¡¯ll all start gawking at us. And my father will come back uninvited."


    "That¡¯s your father?"


    "Let¡¯s say so," she answered, well-nigh cheerfully.


    Habel offered no reply. It had once been told to him that his mother had left him among the reeds shortly after his birth and flown off into the distance like a black wandering owl. Not an uncommon practice among the sylphs of the dark marshes. As for anything resembling a father, he had no such knowledge.


    The matter was so foreign to him that he left it untouched entirely. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Yet he was struck dumb, far more so when he heard the girl¡¯s question.


    "What do you want from me, batling?"


    The gnomes ofttimes used that word, half in jest, half in scorn, for the Children of Eternal Night. The zitherist must have heard the sharp intake of Habel¡¯s breath, for she grinned wide once more.


    "It may not be plain to see," she continued, still plucking at her strings, "wings can be hidden beneath a cloak, hands in gloves, and feet in boots. But what can be seen matters not a whit to me. I judge by what I hear, and my hearing''s sharper than yours. And in your voice dwells the moon, not the sun ¡ª your heart beats with moonlight."


    "Do not fret, though," she added after a pause. "This is no elven town, though I know even the gnomes sometimes look askance at your kind. But in the Cave, far stranger folk than you come and go ¡ª especially here, in my father¡¯s tavern. So, what is it you seek?"


    Habel, long estranged from candour, felt his head reel at the girl¡¯s unguarded chatter. A fierce urge rose within him to escape her company as swiftly as possible.


    "I¡¯m looking for a glassmaker named Jor¨¦n," he muttered, almost disdainfully. "They told me I¡¯d find him here."


    "Ah,  him ," the zitherist replied, a note of disappointment in her voice. "Yes, he¡¯s here most every day, unless he¡¯s wandered off to the alder woods beyond the river. The Lord of Trees alone knows what he¡¯s up to in the boglands, but Gnod says he¡¯s got dealings with a philosopher who buys strange bits of glass from him¡­"


    You¡¯ll come to a bad end, girl,  Habel thought pityingly, taking note of her reckless habit of sharing every bit of gossip with a stranger.


    The gnomish maid tilted her head, listening keenly, as though searching through the sounds and voices like a hand rummaging in a dark sack.


    "The one sitting alone by the bench under the stairs, drumming his fingers against a clay cup ¡ª that¡¯s Jor¨¦n," she said.


    Habel cast a discreet glance over his shoulder. Beneath the stairway that ran up along the side wall of the tavern, a rather stout gnome sat in the half-light. His face was round, neither old nor young, and flushed ruddy from cheeks to his large ears. He tapped absent-mindedly at the bulbous shape of the clay cup with his right hand, as though playing some silent melody upon it.


    The sylph cast a glance back at the zitherist, silently marvelling at her keen hearing, yet said nought. He turned his steps toward the bench where Jor¨¦n sat and took a seat opposite him. With a curt wave at a gnomish boy bustling between tables, Habel reached into his pocket, pulled forth a gleaming gold oakling, and set it down upon the wooden table.


    "Fetch a jug of cider," he said to the lad.


    Jor¨¦n¡¯s gaze flickered to the gold coin, then settled on Habel, who was already fixing his wide, sapphire-blue eyes upon the glassworker, round as a jay¡¯s.


    "And who might you be?" asked Jor¨¦n as the boy pocketed the coin and made for the counter.


    "They said you were a sage glassworker," Habel answered bluntly. "I seek work at the furnace."


    "Work?" Jor¨¦n chuckled, his face merry though sharp with wit. "I¡¯ve no need for anyone."


    "They pointed you out at the gate, sage glassworker," Habel pressed, not taking his gaze off the gnome''s face. "Said you¡¯re glad to take on help."


    "They said that, did they?" Jor¨¦n laughed louder. "If you¡¯ve been flashing gold at the gate like here in the tavern, it¡¯s no wonder they said so. They¡¯d send even a daemon to craft stars from stardust with that much enthusiasm."


    I thought the same,  Habel mused grimly. At that moment, the boy returned, setting down a clay jug of cider and a second cup for the sylph. Jor¨¦n grasped the jug by its handle and poured generously for them both.


    "Show me your hands, then," the gnome said, "so I may judge what skill you¡¯ve got."


    Likho take me, I¡¯m a fool,  thought Habel, feeling the colour drain from his face as he realised he had no ready plan for whenas Jor¨¦n would discover he was a bogland sylph. The gnome, however, mistook his hesitation entirely.


    "You¡¯re no glassmaker," Jor¨¦n scoffed, "any more than I¡¯m a meadow dancer. Your hands have never known the fire. Do you think I see few enough drifters come wintertime? All wrapped in gloves, thinking that because there¡¯s a great glassworks here, work''s easily won? You¡¯d be more likely to burn the place down. So no, I¡¯ll not hire you. Yet this cider we may share."


    Habel exhaled inwardly, grateful for the reprieve. He took a small sip of the cider, then fixed Jor¨¦n with a lingering gaze.


    "A pity," he said. "Jalo told me you never turn anyone away. Apparently, you didn¡¯t refuse him either."


    Jor¨¦n¡¯s hand, holding the cup, froze halfway between the table and his lips. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sylph.


    "And where did you come across Jalo, hmm?"


    "One meets many on the roads," Habel answered with feigned indifference. "He was travelling with his family ¡ª a wife and three children. Seemed unsure where he was headed." He decided to risk pressing with uncertain hints to learn more. "I reckoned he either had the heart of a wanderer or was searching for something."


    "The lake," Jor¨¦n said at once, firmly and with sudden pensiveness. Habel''s ears pricked sharply, as though on command.  Just what I hoped for,  he thought.


    Yet Jor¨¦n swiftly shook himself free from that moment of reverie. For the briefest instant, a flicker of unease had glimmered in his grey eyes ¡ª the kind that surfaces when one lets slip a guarded secret unawares. In the blink of an eye, however, the gnome¡¯s face brightened once more, and he met Habel''s gaze with a cheerful countenance.


    "Some lakes," he said, "are more perfect for glassmakers than others. It''s said that such lakes hold the secret of the flawless mirror ¡ª not crafted by hand but shaped by nature itself. There are precious few of these, if any truly exist. Most would scoff at the notion. But Jalo" ¡ª here Jor¨¦n laughed ¡ª "he was a strange one. He might believe in nothing, yet in the perfect mirror he did believe. Claimed that on the surface of glass one could forge new life. I never rightly knew what he meant by that. But he could work wonders with glass, that much was true."


    "The sort of wonders that would interest philosophers, perhaps?" Habel asked pointedly.


    Jor¨¦n did not answer. He sipped his cider slowly, studying the sylph for a long moment ere speaking again.


    "What name do you go by?"


    "Habel," the sylph answered honestly. His true name had long been known only to the Sorcerer and Hercho ¡ª and perhaps to the lightless depths of Nan Farlas and its prisoners, though those poor wretches seldom returned from its dungeons.


    "Mayhap I¡¯ll have use for you, Habel," Jor¨¦n mused after a pause. "I¡¯ll not let you near the furnace ¡ª I''ve no idea what nonsense Jalo thought of you, nor do I much care. But I might find a task fit for you yet. You can lodge by the glassworks tonight, and we¡¯ll see what comes of it on the morrow."


    Habel inclined his head with a stony expression, though inwardly, his lips curled into a smile.

 7. The Thief on the Hunt part 3

    Chapter 7


    The Thief on the Hunt


    ¡ª  Part the Third  ¡ª


    The glassworks of The Lady of Gloams¡¯ Cave lay at the edge of the city, connected to other parts of the settlement by a web of paths and roads carved through the rock. Whenas at last they arrived, Habel was struck by the mingling glow of the furnace fires and the silvery sheen of the night. Unlike much of the Cave, the glassworks was not entirely concealed beneath the surface but sprawled within a vast and yawning pit ¡ª one of the city''s great hollows, called  grottos  by its folk.


    Habel¡¯s gaze swept over heaps of wood ash piled high, then climbed the sandy embankment that rose toward the riverine forest and its thick carpet of undergrowth. He wondered for a fleeting moment what enchantment or craft kept the pit hidden, for he had not spied it during his flight. Casting a sideways glance at Jor¨¦n, who was puffing slightly from the long trek, he waited.


    ¡°There,¡± panted the glassmaker, catching his breath. ¡°Behold the glassworks ¡ª like a blasted volcano.¡±


    Habel offered no reply, though he wouldn¡¯t have had the chance even if he wished to speak. One of the glassmakers, gripping an iron rod longer than any spear, hailed Jor¨¦n. The gnome, ere following him deeper into the pit, cast a backward glance at the sylph and said:


    ¡°I¡¯ll find you later. Look about, but don¡¯t cause any mischief.¡±


    Habel nodded in understanding, then took his time to survey his surroundings. The cavernous glassworks did indeed resemble the fiery calderas of the dragons'' western lands. He had to summon all his will to keep his wits and not succumb to the paralysing dread stirred by the sight of so much flame. Fire seemed to burst from every crevice, roaring from scores of multi-chambered kilns sunken into the earth and stone.


    The heat was nigh unbearable. Habel¡¯s gaze flicked to the glassmakers, clad in light grey tunics, scorched and frayed by time and flame. Sweat drenched their garments, causing them to cling tightly to their bodies. Beneath his thick woollen cloak, Habel was already sweltering, his tunic clinging to him like a drowning man to driftwood. His gloves were slick and sodden, as though he had just plunged his hands into a steaming spring.


    Suddenly, something caught his eye ¡ª a strange niche in the rock, narrow and black as pitch. A grotto, it seemed, but so deep that its end was hidden from sight. The darkness promised cool respite, and without hesitation or hindrance, Habel made his way toward it, curiosity tugging him forward.


    The passage was narrow and lightless, darker even than the labyrinth beneath Nan Farlas, with not a single torch to illuminate the stone walls. Yet Habel, accustomed to shadows and adept at navigating their depths, moved forward undaunted. He listened to the echo of his own footsteps, letting it guide him to avoid stumbling against the jagged rock.


    He had gone a fair distance when a pale, dust-thick beam of light filtered through a cluster of stones ahead. Guessing that the path curved there, Habel pressed on. Whenas he reached the bend, he saw a formation of steps ¡ª or perhaps a natural alignment of stones ¡ª rising gently upward.


    Tilting his head back, he caught sight of moonlight, pale and insistent, forcing its way through a fissure in the rock much as it sometimes pierced the depths of Nan Farlas itself.


    He began to ascend the steps with care. The path was treacherous, and he stumbled more than once upon uneven stones or fragments of hardened glass ¡ª rough lumps, mostly misshapen and of a blue-green hue, scattered across the entire stairway as though someone had once toppled a full basket of them from the top.


    One particular shard caught his eye. He paused on the step, frowned, and bent to pick it up. Brushing off the dust, he turned it over in his hand. This was no mere splinter of molten waste but something carefully fashioned ¡ª a perfect, polished sphere. It gleamed clear, free of the greenish tinge and ash impurities common to forest glass, without even the faintest air bubble marring its surface.


    Fascinated, he studied the orb, but almost too late he caught the sudden clatter of hurried footsteps echoing down the passage. Quick and deft, he slipped the sphere into the pocket of his trousers and turned just as a dazzling lantern flare cut through the gloom at the base of the stairs.


    The figure holding the lantern drew closer, lowering it to reveal a thin, boyish face alight with unexpected joy and excitement.


    ¡°You¡¯re from Jalo!¡± the boy whispered, his voice trembling with eagerness. ¡°I  knew  he¡¯d send someone ¡ª he wouldn¡¯t just abandon everything he discovered!¡±


    Habel did not deny it. He merely stood in patient silence, intrigued by this fortunate turn of events.


    ¡°Were you heading to his workshop?¡± the boy asked, though he scarcely seemed to await an answer, for he added at once: This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°Come on, let¡¯s go together!¡±


    Without waiting, the boy scrambled up the stairs, tripping and nearly falling in his haste. His enthusiasm for Jalo¡¯s business clearly outweighed any sense of caution. Habel marvelled that someone so young remembered a glassmaker who had left the city more than a dozen years ago.


    He recalled the words of the Sorcerer:  ¡°Jalo was more gifted than most, though his gift was a peculiarity. Glassmakers will remember him. The rabble alw remembers a man¡¯s strangeness, whether they admire it or scorn it.¡±


    Likho always right,  Habel thought grimly, wincing inwardly.


    ¡°In my grave I sit alone, darkness ''round me like a stone, thou shalt not find me on this throne ¡ª for darkness clings, and flesh is gone,¡± the boy suddenly sang, laughing at his own stumbles. Yet there was an unsettling edge to the words, as strange as they sounded from a child¡¯s lips. Habel, hearing mention of a grave for the second time that day, pricked up his ears in curiosity.


    ¡°You know that the willow above the city is F¨¦na¡¯s grave, don¡¯t you?¡± the boy said conversationally, perhaps merely to keep the talk flowing. ¡°Sometimes it sings her songs or plays her zither. I guess it¡¯s her now ¡ª or what¡¯s left of her body. Not that I understand philosopher stuff much.¡±


    Habel had never heard of the grave-willow nor of F¨¦na, though his heart quickened with curiosity. Nevertheless, he assured the gnomish boy, ¡°Of course, I know.¡±


    After a short while, they reached a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar. In full light (if such a thing ever shone here), it must have been a deep blue; now it appeared a dark navy, almost black. The gnome-boy stopped before it, his face glowing with proud enthusiasm as he looked up at Habel.


    "If you meet him, tell him it worked."


    "What worked?" asked Habel, immediately realising his foolish blunder, for he had nearly revealed that he knew nothing of Jalo¡¯s work. The boy, however, did not seem to notice.


    "You¡¯ll tell him what you see here. He¡¯ll understand," the lad said confidently, then pushed the door wide open.


    Before Habel even cast his eyes about the place that had once been Jalo¡¯s workshop, the sound of water filled his ears. He turned toward the source of the noise, where the light seemed brightest. The white glow of the second moon illuminated a waterfall that seemed to spring forth from the very rock. It was no more than twice his sylph frame in height and breadth, but it cascaded just below the workshop¡¯s floor, transforming into a narrow stream that vanished further ahead, slipping once more between the stones.


    Then Habel turned his gaze to the remnants of Jalo¡¯s craft: glass vessels lining wooden shelves, scattered fragments of molten glass strewn about, tools left where they had last been used, and a furnace now cocooned in spider silk.


    The gnomish boy strode to a peculiar table made from a tangle of thin stalagmites with flat, splayed tops. Setting down his lantern, he took a piece of cloth and began wiping dust from something on the tabletop ¡ª the surface of a mirror.


    Intrigued, Habel stepped closer. The mirror was unassuming, yet its surface was remarkably smooth and even. He seldom saw his reflection save in the waters of the Lake of Fiery Stones surrounding Nan Farlas. Now, catching sight of himself, he grimaced. He looked like a daemon ¡ª wide eyes, shadowed beneath by darkness deepened by the workshop''s dim light, giving him an appalling appearance.


    Meanwhile, the boy fetched a four-wheeled wooden cart from the corner and positioned it beside the table.


    "Help me!" he commanded, grasping the frame of the mirror and struggling to lift it. Habel seized it as well. It was heavy as a hundred Likhos, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a groan as pain lanced through his crippled arm, sharp as a dagger thrust. Somehow, he guided it onto the tracks fitted neatly into the cart, scarcely aware as the boy pushed the mirror across a plank bridge spanning the stream and toward the waterfall.


    Habel forgot his pain entirely, though, his left hand frozen mid-motion where it had been massaging his wing. The boy manoeuvred the mirror until it caught the moonlight, filtered through the curtain of water. Then something wondrous occurred.


    O Lady of Alders!  Habel exclaimed inwardly.


    The mirror transformed into a stained-glass window, its vibrant images shifting subtly with the tremors of the falling water. The window divided into four distinct scenes, yet the same two figures appeared in each. Habel¡¯s gaze swept across the glass until it landed on a scene where a maiden with hair white as swan¡¯s wings and a boy dressed in the garments of the gnomish guard from the king¡¯s age stood by a riverbank, eyes wide with wonder as they stared into the water''s depths.


    Just above the water, a forest grew, though two trees were wholly unlike the rest ¡ª behind the maid and youth stood the ponderous Master Chestnut, his thick trunk and brows lifted in serene contentment, whilst beside him loomed the scarred and resin-bleeding figure of Mistress Alder.


    Habel¡¯s gaze lingered on the water depicted in the stained glass, then he started as sudden understanding dawned upon him.


    The lake!  he thought, a barely perceptible smile flickering across his lips.  Jalo was searching for the lake from his window of glass!


    "Extraordinary, isn¡¯t it?" the gnomish boy called out, standing beyond the stream¡¯s trickle, his hands stuffed into his pockets and a wide, proud grin splitting his face.


    Habel nodded in agreement, then motioned toward the window.


    "What is that lake called?"


    "What sort of gnome are you, not knowing the tale of F¨¦na and N¨¦lchod?" the boy huffed, clearly affronted.


    There¡¯s that F¨¦na again,  Habel mused, though he had already assumed the white-haired maiden in the window was indeed her ¡ª the one who became a grave.


    "Everyone¡¯s heard it at least once in their life," he muttered disdainfully, shrugging. "I''ve just never had a memory for legends." A blatant falsehood, for few could remember stories as well as he.


    "They call it the Lake of Blazing Stars," the boy said as he crossed back over the stream toward Habel.


    "Where is it?" the sylph pressed. It was a safe enough question ¡ª the lad was neither particularly clever nor suspicious.


    The boy shrugged again. "Maybe the philosophers know, but the story never says."


    "There are maps," Habel suggested, the corner of his mouth curving faintly.


    "Maps don¡¯t interest me. I¡¯ve never wandered far past the Cave, and I don¡¯t reckon I ever will," the boy said with a dismissive wave. Then, as he stopped beside Habel, his face brightened with fresh enthusiasm, and he changed the subject:


    "You¡¯ll tell Jalo what you saw, won¡¯t you?"


    The sylph glanced at him. Only now, under the fuller glow of the moon, did Habel notice how strikingly blue the boy¡¯s eyes were ¡ª strange for a gnome.


    "I will," he assured.


    Not a word I will tell,  he thought later, lying atop a stone slab in the small room carved into the rocks above the glassworks ¡ª a place Jor¨¦n had set aside for him to sleep, though climbing up to it earlier had required no small effort.


    He drew the stolen glass sphere from his pocket and, shifting toward the window, held it up before his eyes.


    The image within spun on command, like during a bat''s sleep.

 8. The Moon Like an Elderberry part 1

    Chapter 8


    The Moon Like an Elderberry


    ¡ª Part the First ¡ª


    Jalo¡¯s workshop stood at the edge of the settlement, perched on a sandy, perilous bluff that sloped steeply down toward the lake. Upon the crest of that bluff grew a mighty beech tree, its trunk aged to a silver sheen. That day, snow mingled with rain and fell so thickly that, peering through the round hollow of the window, F¨¦ven could scarcely make out the path leading to the workshop ¡ª let alone catch sight of her father, should he be returning from the village.


    Turning away from the window, she saw Fet holding a small black elderberry in his outstretched right hand, likely pilfered from her herb store that morning, and in his left, his glass sphere, through which he peered with one eye half-squinted. He moved the sphere back and forth before his face, alternately drawing it close and then away, until the game wearied him. Casting the berry onto the table, he began to survey the room through his glass toy. At last, his gaze landed on F¨¦ven, and his eyes widened with curiosity.


    Still clutching the sphere, he began gesturing eagerly, trying to convey what his words could not. F¨¦ven quickly caught his meaning.


    "Everything looks upside down?" she asked. When he nodded, she glanced back through the window, smiling faintly to herself. "It¡¯s a magic sphere, that¡¯s why."


    She knew this answer would hardly satisfy her little brother ¡ª and indeed, as she turned back to him, his face was twisted in a petulant grimace.


    "I¡¯ve explained it to you before," she reminded him.


    Fet shrugged but waved impatiently, insisting he wanted to hear it again regardless.


    "Jalo once told you," F¨¦ven began, stepping closer and gently taking the sphere from his hand, "that we see because of light. When light reaches your sphere, it changes direction." She traced her finger in the air at the height of the glass object. "That¡¯s why everything looks different."


    Fet made an exasperated gesture, plainly demanding a fuller explanation.


    "I don¡¯t know any more than that," F¨¦ven admitted, lifting her shoulders in a slight, apologetic shrug. "Jalo says it¡¯s just a theory. The writings have nothing more on it ¡ª at least none that we know of. Unless perhaps in S¨¦n Ser¨¦n or some other place far beyond ours."


    Fet grew still, fixing F¨¦ven with that unwavering gaze of his as he mulled over her words. Moments later, the door of the beech tree creaked, and Jalo entered, his rough hooded cloak pulled low over his head.


    He cast off the cloak, shaking off stray drops of sleet, and glanced at them with that faint bewilderment ever etched upon his face¡ªa look F¨¦ven had inherited from him. A slight smile tugged at his lips.


    "Wherefore have you come?" he asked, as though he truly didn¡¯t know.


    "To do something with you," F¨¦ven answered plainly.


    Jalo smiled once more and strode over to the great furnace, whose base from the heart of the beech delved deep into the earth beneath the bluff. He crouched by the hearth, stirring the embers to coax forth a stronger flame, for it had dwindled to little more than a flicker.


    "May I stand by the crucible?" asked F¨¦ven, shrugging off her cloak and tossing it onto the table. She glanced at Fet, but her brother had long since shed his outerwear. There was something strange about him ¡ª he never seemed to feel the cold.


    "No," Jalo said firmly, grasping the rod himself. "Too much mass, crucibles too large."


    "What are you making?" she asked, curious.


    "Glass panes," Jalo replied. "The gnome merchants from the Gates will come for them in three days."


    Glass panes, F¨¦ven got lost in thought.


    Glass panes always heralded change. Jalo rarely made smooth, seamless panes ¡ª blown from vast molten bubbles. He disliked crafting them, and they weren¡¯t much sought after. But they fetched a high price, and so Jalo only made them when he reckoned money might be needed. When he was thinking of moving to a new place.


    F¨¦ven glanced at her father but held her tongue.


    "Prepare the blend for the second crucible," he instructed, catching her gaze.


    She nodded silently and strode over to the long chest near the window, where Jalo had earlier tossed sand, wood ash, and other ingredients whose names he had yet to reveal to her. Gripping the shovel, she set to work.


    They toiled in silence for some time, the heat steadily growing as glass melted and F¨¦ven shoveled back and forth across the length of the chest. Clad only in her tunic, she paused for a moment and made her way to the door of the hollow. She pushed it ajar, letting in a gust of cool air.


    Closing her eyes, she savoured the breeze as it brushed her nose and cheeks with a gentle, welcome touch.


    Suddenly, through her half-lidded gaze, F¨¦ven fancied she saw something strange poking out from behind the tree. Her eyes flew open at once. For the briefest of moments, she''d have sworn she glimpsed the tip of an ear ¡ª dark brown and hairy, like that of an animal. Yet as swiftly as the thought came, it faded, and she realised it was nought but blades of blackened grass swaying in the wind, peeking from behind the trunk.


    Nothing can be seen in this blizzard, she mused, turning away and shutting the door once more.


    "That Al," said Jalo suddenly, breaking the silence, "that bard who wandered his way here ¡ª he¡¯s not such a bad lad. Not much of a mind, but no fool neither. You can have a decent chat with him. Friendly and merry too. And you took a liking to him."


    F¨¦ven was amused by the thought that her father, for the first time ever, was attempting to marry her off.


    "You mean to wed me to a bard?" she asked, a genuine smile spreading across her face.


    "And why not?" Jalo answered bluntly, shrugging as he stirred the cauldron with his rod. "Bards aren¡¯t treetures they take wives too. He¡¯ll be coming back to you, and he¡¯ll take you on his travels. We¡¯ve moved about oft enough ourselves, and you¡¯ve never minded."


    "I haven¡¯t," F¨¦ven agreed honestly. "But I still don¡¯t see what¡¯s got you so fond of him."


    "Maybe I just like him," Jalo said in a jesting tone, smiling faintly. "Why don¡¯t you?" Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "I never said I didn¡¯t," she shrugged lightly. "Just not enough to marry him."


    "And what sort of man would you marry, then?"


    "I don¡¯t know," she admitted after a moment''s thought, resuming her shovelling.


    "I¡¯m not forcing you," Jalo said calmly. "Not to know, nor to marry anyone at all. Just saying ¡ª if you¡¯ve found a good friend, it¡¯s a pity to waste it."


    "I don¡¯t even know if Al is my friend, at least not in the way you mean," F¨¦ven replied, slowing the shovel''s motion as her gaze drifted out of the window. The wind howled more fiercely now, even the thicker branches of the beeches swaying slightly in its grasp. Jyrcho¡¯s right, what do I even know?


    "Besides, what¡¯s the point of this talk? We both know he won¡¯t be back."


    "I tell you, he will."


    "And when he does, we¡¯ll have this conversation again."


    "Oi!" came Fet¡¯s sudden cry, though it had nought to do with their conversation. F¨¦ven turned sharply toward her brother, as did Jalo.


    Fet was staring at the floor with a sour, almost pained expression, though nothing much had happened ¡ª only the elderberry he¡¯d been holding lay squashed, its dried remnants staining the floor a murky, dirty purple.


    "Clean," said Fet, lifting his gaze anxiously from the floor and darting it between Jalo and his sister.


    Their father laughed.


    "Let it be," he said, crouching beside Fet, wrapping an arm around him, and patting his shoulder. "All''s well now, huh?"


    Yet Fet, visibly rattled, pulled away and seized the first rag he could find on the shelf, scrubbing furiously at the stain. F¨¦ven was taken aback. Her brother had always been troubled by sudden messes, but this reaction seemed excessive even for him.


    She knelt beside him, gently taking the cloth from his hand.


    "Easy now," she said soothingly.


    He looked straight into her eyes then.


    "Moon," he whispered. "Blood."


    F¨¦v¡¯s gaze shifted to the rag, and at once she understood what troubled him. Like the moon last night.


    "What moon? What blood?" Jalo asked, still amused.


    F¨¦ven smiled faintly.


    "Last night, the Sage was red as dirty blood. He remembered it."


    "Ah, nonsense, Fet," Jalo said with a chuckle. He swiped a finger across the crushed berry and licked it. "Elderberry ¡ª you''ve eaten it plenty of times. Just a common fruit. F¨¦v will brew syrup or a draught from it."


    Just then, a tapping sound came from the window ¡ª once, then again. Jalo tensed, lifting his head sharply. His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, but enough for F¨¦v to catch that fleeting sign of his wariness. She turned her head to look as well. Yet through the crown glasses, the blizzard raged alone.


    "Expecting someone, Father?" she asked gravely, her gaze steady upon him.


    "No, not at all!" He waved a hand dismissively, rising and making his way back to the crucible. "Yet off with you now! Pull him away from that nonsense." He nodded toward Fet, who was still scrubbing the floor with fervour.


    There was something strange about that smile of his, and F¨¦ven hesitated awhile. Yet she nodded in the end, sensing that leaving with Fet might indeed be wise.


    Once outside, she cast her eyes about warily. The world was shrouded in swirling white, every shape softened and veiled by the storm. Even as they moved further down the path, F¨¦ven glanced back over her shoulder. The workshop door loomed faintly through the blinding mist, untouched by any visitor.


    I need to find Jyrcho, she thought nonetheless.


    <hr>


    It was barely past noon, but the village, veiled in falling snow and chilled by a damp, piercing cold, lay as empty as if it were midnight. Only the lanterns flickered on the trees, creaking and swaying in the wind. F¨¦ven was in haste to return home to Jyrcho, but Fet had insisted they go to the lakeshore, to the rocks where the Pine Festival had been held just weeks before.


    There, he found his calm, sinking into silence and thought even more deeply than usual. He climbed atop a fallen beech and stood for a long while, gazing at the wind tugging a splintered plank of the pier. Its loose end dipped and struck the lake¡¯s thin, frozen crust with a faint splash.


    At last, F¨¦ven called to him, and Fet obediently returned, though his eyes had drifted upwards, fixed upon the overcast sky.


    "Jyrcho!" F¨¦ven called the moment she opened the door to their house, but only silence answered her.


    She dashed upstairs to the house where their parents had once lived, now Jalo''s and Fet¡¯s sleeping quarters, but it was empty too.


    Where has he gone today? she wondered, returning downstairs to find Fet glancing uneasily about the kitchen.


    Suddenly she remembered. H e left his orb in Jalo''s workshop. For a moment, she expected her brother to demand they go back for it. Yet to her surprise, he calmed himself and wandered instead to Jyrcho¡¯s room. There he fetched a stool, setting it beneath the window, and settled down, unmoving, to watch the wet snowflakes tumble earthward.


    Seeing him thus occupied, F¨¦ven retreated to the herb room. She fetched her mortar and pestle and busied herself with her work.


    Not three quarters of an hour had passed when a timid knock sounded at the door.


    She rose to open it. On the threshold stood Od, his cheeks flushed from the cold, his cloak damp with snow. F¨¦ven smiled faintly and drew the door wider, stepping aside to let him in. Yet the boy shook his head and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak.


    "Jyrcho bade me give you this," he said, holding out a folded scrap of papyrus.


    F¨¦ven''s brow furrowed with question as she accepted it and unfolded the note.


    "Listen, F¨¦v¡­" Od began, his voice troubled. "Forgive me ¡ª I couldn¡¯t stop him."


    Jyrcho too begged her forgiveness in the brief letter:


    "Forgive me, F¨¦v, but an opportunity arose, and I had to take it. No time to write more. Yours, Jyr¨¦."


    F¨¦ven¡¯s heart quickened as she read her brother''s words, but she merely looked up at Od and calmly asked him to come inside.


    "What opportunity?" she asked once he¡¯d hung his cloak over the back of a chair and seated himself at the table. "And with whom did he leave?"


    "I don¡¯t know, F¨¦ven," Od said apologetically. "You know I¡¯d tell you everything if I did. He ran up to me, all excited, shouting that he was going, and when I asked where, he just waved it off ¡ª said it didn¡¯t matter and that he was in a hurry. Then he gave me this." He gestured at the papyrus. "Told me to make sure you got it. That¡¯s the last I saw of him."


    The elf-maid said nothing to it, for at that very moment, a sudden noise echoed from Jyrcho¡¯s room.


    ¡°What are you up to, Fet?¡± she asked as she entered and found her little brother standing at the open window, letting the wind whip at his hair whilst he gazed hungrily into the distance.


    He did not turn to her but pointed with his finger.


    ¡°Look! Moon-Daughter slumbers there. Dragonmage waits. Gown, moon, elderberries.¡±


    F¨¦v hurried to his side, though she saw nothing but beech trunks and forest floor blanketed in snow. She had never been one for ominous premonitions, but a thought crashed through her mind like a grim revelation:  Jalo!  She sprang toward the door.


    And then they heard it ¡ª a blast. First one, then another.


    Without cloak or care, F¨¦ven darted out of the house. In a blink, she slid from the great oak tree that edged their path and tore through the woods, taking the shortcut to the western lakeshore where Jalo¡¯s beech workshop stood. Her shoes sank deep into the fresh, sticky snow, and her trouser legs were soaked through to the knees within moments, but she did not slow. If anything, she ran faster.


    The villagers, frightened by the explosion, were already converging from every corner of the settlement. Eftsoons, F¨¦ven spotted the glow of orange light piercing through the swirling snow and fog. She halted, aghast.


    Jalo¡¯s beech blazed like a torch.


    ¡°Alchemist¡¯s powder¡ªit¡¯s gone up!¡± cried Gath¨¦n as he ran toward her from the woods. He had been the nearest to the workshop and must have reached it among the first.


    The sound of the sage storyteller¡¯s voice jolted F¨¦ven from her trance. Without sparing him a glance, she dashed onward toward the burning tree.


    ¡°F¨¦ven, wait!¡± Gath¨¦n shouted, giving chase.


    Those villagers who had arrived ahead were already dousing the flames with water and druidic powder, hastily encircling the blaze to prevent it from spreading to the forest. F¨¦ven made to rush inside, into the very heart of the beech, but Gath¨¦n caught her with all his might and held fast.


    ¡°F¨¦v, there''s nought left! I was inside ¡ª your father¡¯s gone!¡±


    She struggled to break free, yet he only gripped her tighter.


    ¡°Stop! You shan¡¯t see that ¡ª you  won¡¯t!  Besides¡­¡±


    As though his words had summoned it, the burning tree let out a mighty crack. The crowd fled back in terror, knowing well what was to come. Moments later, the beech gave a final wrenching groan, splitting in twain ere tumbling down the sandy escarpment and into the hungry waters below.


    ¡°Jalo!¡± F¨¦ven cried out in a wild, raw voice. Then she fell silent. A strange calm came over her ¡ª a dreadful calm. ¡°Jalo¡­¡± she whispered one last time before standing still, staring long into the gulf.


    It was Od who pulled her from her reverie, appearing behind her with Fet cradled in his arms. He said nothing at first, simply setting the boy down gently on the snow-covered earth. Then, placing a tentative hand on F¨¦ven¡¯s shoulder, he murmured:


    ¡°F¨¦v, I¡¯m so¡ª¡± His voice faltered, and he blurted foolishly, ¡°Gath¨¦n says it was an accident. The powder went off by chance, did it not?¡±


    F¨¦ven did not answer. She only turned her gaze to Fet, who had found fragments of his beloved orb amidst the charred ruin. She approached him quietly, taking the half of the glass sphere that had survived intact. It gleamed faintly, like a scarred moon caught in its quarter phase.


    Her eyes swept the scene.


    Not by chance,  she thought, her gaze hardening toward a spot near the tree where earlier that day she had glimpsed the tip of the hairy ear. Yet she kept the thought to herself.  Jyrcho, where are you? Why now?