Wards of Faerie

3

When Aphenglow Elessedil woke the following morning, she ached everywhere. Moving slowly and stiffly, she went to the basin, dropped her sleeping shift, and washed herself gingerly. She was a mass of bruises and scratches, and the marks from the cord that had been wound about her neck burned at the slightest touch. She took time to reapply the ointment Arling had used the night before. Then she stretched to relieve the tightness in her body, dressed, and went down to breakfast. She ate standing up at the kitchen counter, staring out the window as the night’s shadows receded and sunrise brightened the eastern sky.

Her sister had already gone. She would be down in the Gardens of Life with the other Chosen, gathered to welcome the Ellcrys to a new day and anxious to begin their assigned tasks. Her sister might say she didn’t want to do the work of her order, but Aphenglow knew she took great pride in what she did. She was particularly suited to the position of Chosen, and was looked up to by the others for her skills and instincts as a Healer and caregiver. Yes, she wanted to be a Druid, and there were reasons to think that she would be a good one; she had talents that would lend themselves to the complicated and demanding work of the Druid order. But as impatient as her sister was to join her, Aphenglow knew she was better off where she was. Arling was still young, nine years Aphen’s junior, and she was not yet fully cognizant of what it would do to her life if she followed in her sister’s footsteps.

Aphen finished her fruit and bread, but stayed at the window and continued to watch the day brighten. Something was troubling her, though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.

After five minutes or so of staring at nothing much, she left the kitchen, walked to the front door, and stepped outside. No one in the nearby residences was in evidence, so she couldn’t ask if they had seen or heard anything last night. Instead she began walking around the little cottage, picking her way toward the window where she had seen the shadow pass. Her tracking skills were good enough that she soon found footprints—a man’s, by the size of them. She followed them a short distance. They stopped, backtracked a bit, and then, with an obvious change in the length of the stride, signaled that the man had begun running. She followed the prints to the end of the yard, where they disappeared out onto the pathway that led from her tiny neighborhood into the city.

She stood looking at the footprints, perplexed by what she was seeing.

And then she realized, all at once, what was troubling her.

How had her attacker passed by the window one moment and gotten behind her the next? The time frame was too short for that to have happened. Which meant there had to have been more than one—the first man, whose shadow had drawn her attention, and a second who had come in through the kitchen door and attacked her.

She stood looking down the pathway for a moment and then walked back to the window and around the house to the rear door. Sure enough, the clear depressions of a second set of prints, larger than the first, were outlined in the bare earth by the flower beds Arlingfant so carefully tended. The second man had lingered here, and then come through the door to attack her.

Or had he been inside already, waiting?

She felt a sudden chill. Her assailants had known what they were doing. One to distract her so that she wouldn’t sense the other—a way of making sure her normally reliable Druid senses did not warn her of the danger. Her instincts were good, but not infallible, and she was not always able to pick up on everything happening around her.

The other thing she realized was that her attacker had made it impossible to defend herself with magic. She hadn’t thought of that last night, still shaken by the attack, but she saw it clearly now. By cutting off her air he had throttled her voice and paralyzed her hands, preventing her from summoning any sort of magic. Her reaction had been instinctual—use physical force to get free. Perhaps subconsciously she had known that without her voice and hands she couldn’t conjure any sort of magic anyway.

Everyone knew she was a Druid and had the use of magic. Not everyone knew how that magic worked: that voice or hands or both were needed to evoke it. Her attackers must have, though. The first man, the one at the window, would have been the leader, the one who thought it all through. The second, her attacker, was a skilled fighter and likely a trained assassin.

So now she had two mysteries. Who knew all this and would want to hurt her, and who knew about the diary and wanted to steal it?

She opened the back door and walked into the kitchen again. In truth she had more than two mysteries that needed solving, if you considered all the questions surrounding the diary’s entries and the unknown history of their author. But only two that mattered regarding the attack.

A course of action that might help resolve all this eluded her at the moment, so she returned to her plan regarding the lineage charts of the Elven Kings and Queens. Picking up her backpack with its notes and stuffing the diary into a deep pocket in the trousers she was wearing, she departed the cottage and headed off to the palace for more research.

The walk was short and uneventful, but she found herself on edge the entire way. The attack had left her shaken, even if she wouldn’t admit it to Arlingfant, and she knew that for a while, at least, she would be looking over her shoulder everywhere she went.

Deep in the lower levels of the palace, alone once more, she pulled out the lineage charts and went to work. The charts went much farther back than the Elven histories, although nothing had survived that went all the way back to the beginning of things. She started at the place where the recordings of lineages began and worked her way forward, hoping that any reference to Pathke and Meresch would not be so long ago as to have escaped all mention.

It was tedious work. The charts were old and handwritten, and all sorts of smudges and discolorations marred the information. In addition, she had to translate the ancient Elfish language that was being used at that time in order to comprehend what she was reading. But most troubling of all was a tendency of the early Elven scribes to leave things out, not believing them important enough to mention—a deficiency that over time had become apparent to later chroniclers who had discovered such absences while reading other writings. If that had happened here, she might miss what she was looking for without even realizing it.

In any event, it was slow going, and she had been at work almost the entire morning before she found the entries for which she had been searching.

She was still far back in the early years of Elven history, back before the advent of Men and the other Races—back when the Elves and their allies were still at war with the Darklings and theirs—when she discovered a Pathke Omarosian who had been King with a Meresch his wife and Queen. Their reign had lasted for over forty years, and they had been together for eight or nine before that. Their daughter, Aleia, had been born after Pathke had been King for seven years, and she had died when she was only eighteen.

Aphenglow stopped reading. Only eighteen. That would have been about the time she met and lost the Darkling boy. Her voice in the diary and the impetuousness of her acts would be appropriate for that age.

So had her death been linked to that event?

Aphen couldn’t tell. There was nothing written anywhere on that page or any of the dozen that followed to reveal what had happened. Pathke had ruled for another seventeen years and then Meresch had succeeded him and ruled for twelve more. Aleia had been their only child.

Aphenglow set down the records and stared off into the shadows. It was too big a coincidence to think that Aleia’s death was not in some way connected with her affair, but it didn’t look as if there were any way to determine the connection. Still, she wasn’t ready to let go of the matter just yet.

Picking up the records anew, she began working her way forward through the lineages once more. She pressed on for the remainder of the afternoon and found multiple instances of other members of the Omarosian line who had become Kings and Queens. But oddly, all of them seemed to serve sporadically, with great intervals of time falling between periods of rule. Given that they were not in the direct line of succession, it was odd to see them appear so frequently—almost as if they were brought in as caretaker monarchs. It also appeared that they married and split off into other families; many of the lineages were interrelated.

It was nearing twilight, and she had worked uninterrupted all day. She had eaten nothing for lunch and was beginning to feel hunger’s impatient tug when she remembered that she had promised to dine with Ellich and Jera. She had reached the place in the records where the Old World had destroyed itself, and the survivors of Men and Elves and their descendants had endured a one thousand-year journey to the coming together of the First Council of Druids, with no mention of the Omarosians for centuries. She was about to put down the charts and go off to dinner when a notation made shortly after the convening of the First Druid Council caught her eye.

She translated it twice, wanting to make certain what she was reading. But there it was: a clear reference to a marriage that linked the Omarosians of the past to at least one branch of the family that had survived to the present.

The Omarosians had merged with the Elessedils.

Which meant that, improbable though it seemed, she was related to Aleia Omarosian.

Dinner with her aunt and uncle that evening was a decidedly quiet affair. Jera answered Aphenglow’s questions with brief comments, and Ellich didn’t speak at all. Long silences were punctuated only by the sounds of eating utensils against plates and the big willow outside scraping the roof. It was the longest meal that Aphenglow could remember, and she could not seem to do anything to improve on it. Her uncle and aunt were pleasant enough, but non-conversant in spite of her efforts to elicit more than half a dozen words at a time. For all their warm friendship and family ties, it felt to her as if they were strangers.

She couldn’t account for it and decided not to try. Sometimes you were better off just letting things go.

When dinner was finished, Ellich asked if she would take a walk with him. Jera began to clean up and refused Aphenglow’s offer to help, insisting that she accompany her uncle. It wasn’t hard to figure out that this was something they had talked about before she arrived and been thinking about all through the meal. Aphen knew she wasn’t going to like whatever it was her uncle wanted to talk about, if he and Jera were this nervous about bringing it up, but didn’t see any reasonable way to avoid it.

Ellich took her outside into the clear, cool night air. The sky was filled with stars and the city was wrapped in silence. Side by side they walked down the lane that bordered the surrounding cottages, neither of them speaking. Aphenglow was conscious of how alike they would appear to anyone passing—both of them tall and lean, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and both possessed of a long, swinging gait and a confident presence. This wasn’t entirely an accident or even the result of genetics. Aphenglow had been raised as much by Ellich and Jera as by her own parents, and as a little girl she had tried very hard to emulate everything her uncle said or did, following him around for hours like a devoted puppy.

That had been a long time ago, but some of what she had taken from him she had kept as her own, from the way she walked to her slow, careful approach to solving problems and uncovering mysteries.

“I’m worried about you,” her uncle said finally, apparently deciding it was time to address whatever was bothering him.

“You needn’t be,” she answered at once. “I’m fine.”

“Which would explain the burn marks around your neck, I’m sure.”

She had worn a scarf to conceal those, but somehow he had caught a glimpse of them anyway. “All right, I’m not entirely fine. Someone attacked me, but I drove him off. No harm.”

Her uncle glanced over. “No harm this time. But what about the next? You’ve attracted enemies with your decision to serve the Druids, Aphen. You can’t pretend otherwise. I’ve heard the talk, and people are usually careful about what they say around me. But they don’t like what you are doing, and as a consequence they don’t much like you.”

“I’m aware.”

“Well, then. What I want to ask is whether you’ve given any thought to withdrawing from the order and coming back here to live permanently.”

She sighed. “I haven’t given it one moment’s thought, Ellich. I like what I am doing and I like the people I am doing it with. I can’t help it that certain Elves are angry with this. I would have thought Elves, of all people, would be less inclined to discriminate. But maybe I’m not seeing this as clearly as I should.”

He glanced over. “Don’t get your back up just yet. I’m not one of those who think you made a mistake. I’m just wondering how much more of your life you ought to give over to this choice. While you’re spending days down in dusty storerooms searching for something that very likely doesn’t exist, more pressing problems go unresolved.”

“What are you talking about?”

He stopped walking and turned to face her. “The world isn’t what it was, Aphen. We came out of a world that was dominated by science, not magic. Magic was the old way, and we left it behind with the fall of Faerie and the coming of Men. But with the destruction of the world that science and Men built, we turned once more to magic for ways to sustain and improve what was left to us of the Old World. We were mostly successful for more than three thousand years. But now that’s changing.”

She stared at him. “How is it changing? Magic still governs our people. It still dictates the balance of power among the Races.”

“At the moment, but not for much longer. The Federation works hard to recover the lost technologies. Men distrust magic; they believe there is more reliability in science. This is especially so for those governed by the Federation and even more so by those doing the governing. They have a clear and possibly unalterable worldview. They seek domination over the other Races and they intend that science give them the power that will allow for that. They fought for it during the wars on the Prekkendorran, and even after they were defeated they harbored a desire to pursue it. They outnumber the other Races two to one, and they are working hard at increasing those odds through alliances and treaties. All they need is a way to negate the magic of the Elves and the Druids.”

“That won’t happen.” She met his gaze squarely. “The Druids won’t allow it.”

He nodded. “So you think. But the Druid order is tiny and isolated. How many of you are left? Six? Eight? And your Ard Rhys hasn’t been seen in how many years? Even the Elves want nothing to do with you. How much can you accomplish with so few?” He paused. “This is not to say we are any better off. We aren’t. We have some use of magic, but nothing of real consequence beyond the blue Elfstones. We study the use of magic, and a few of us possess talismans handed down over the centuries, but by and large we are bereft. Once, the use of magic defined us. Now it seems an oddity, a remnant of another time.

He sighed. “It is a worrisome state of affairs, Aphenglow. Without magic, we are vulnerable on many fronts. Our army is well trained, but dwarfed by that of the Federation. We disdain the help of the Druids; our only meaningful alliance is with the Dwarves. If that should fail, we would be susceptible to an all-out attack.”

“The Federation wouldn’t dare. The other Races wouldn’t stand for it.”

“I think they would. I think the other Races would stay clear of the whole mess, very much the way they have in other times. If the Dwarves were persuaded to stay out of it, the Gnomes and Trolls would do the same. The Federation would have the match they seek.”

She leaned back and studied him. “Why are you telling me all this? What does my status as a Druid have to do with anything?”

“Just this. As the King’s granddaughter and an Elf and Druid both, you occupy a unique position in the Elven hierarchy. Even disliked as you are by some, you still command respect. I wish you would consider using it. Come back to us and be the leader we need.”

“My grandfather is King and his son Phaedon after him. Since Phaedon has no children, you would be next in line. And after that, there are others who would be favored over me.”

Ellich shook his head, eyebrows arching high on his forehead. “My brother is failing. My nephew would be a dangerous and foolish choice, and I would be a worse one. All of the others lack your skills and training. You are the right person to lead the Elves.”

“This is dangerous talk, Ellich. You might not want to repeat it to anyone else.”

“I am not suggesting that you should claim the throne, Aphen. But as a member of the Elessedil family, you can help by sharing the magic that is rightfully ours.”

For just a second she thought he had uncovered her secret and was speaking of the missing Elfstones. She hesitated, uncertain of what to say. But then she realized he was speaking in more general terms.

“The Elven magic is lost, Uncle. What there is of it is being sought out by the Druids. The Elves do nothing to help. They might have created the magic in the time of Faerie, but they let it slip away. They put it aside and forgot it.”

He nodded slowly. “But it is theirs by right of prior ownership, Aphen. It doesn’t belong only to the Druids.”

“No. Nor do they claim it does. It belongs to everyone. The Druids seek only to keep it available to all.”

“That might be so, but the goal is unattainable. Not everyone can have use of it. Much of it, like the blue Elfstones, can be used only by Elves. It is specific to us; it belongs to us. I don’t suggest that the Druids shouldn’t have a say in its use. But in practical terms, the Druids must come to an understanding with the Elves on what that use should be. You are the one who can make that understanding possible. You need only change your thinking sufficiently to allow that to happen.”

She paused, realizing now what he was asking. “You want me to act as an intermediary between the Druids and the Elves on the subject of using magic?”

“I do. I want you to remember that you have one foot solidly planted in both camps. You know this. Don’t try to take sides. Don’t think you must make a choice. Serve both. It won’t be easy, but it will be necessary.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t even think of how to approach such a task.”

Her uncle took her hands and squeezed them gently. “Begin by promising me this. If you uncover magic in your search, either here or later, tell me about it first. Don’t go to the King or the High Council. Come to me. Together we can form a strategy for making the necessary alliance between Druids and Elves. We can find a way to form an agreement that will unify the two camps so that they may stand against the Federation.”

She thought about the missing Elfstones—the only real lead she had come across in a year’s hard work. Was there a way to share that magic if it were to be recovered? She knew the danger posed by the Federation. Her uncle did not exaggerate. But she could not speak for the other Druids and knew that her mandate was to gather and place control of all magic in her order—not to allow any other claim to it. Grianne Ohmsford herself had declared that this was the only way to keep power among the Races in balance.

But she also knew that advancements in the development of new science were threatening that balance. And the Druids were poorly equipped to do anything to change that.

“I will give it some thought,” she told him, “but I can’t promise anything more. I have to think on it. I respect what you are saying, Ellich. I just don’t know if there is a way to bring about what you would like to see happen.”

He smiled. “Nor do I. But if you are willing to try, if you will trust me enough to talk to me about it when there is need, I think we might find that way. Come, now. Enough talk. Let’s walk back and see if Jera might have something sweet prepared to complete our dinner.”

No more was said that evening about their discussion. Conversation returned to something more or less approaching normal, and when Aphenglow departed for home and bed it was with a sense of renewed warmth toward her uncle and aunt. She was not done thinking about what she had been asked to do or even close to any sort of decision, but she cared enough for her uncle that she would give his suggestion careful consideration. There was no question in her mind that she would rather take him into her confidence than anyone else at Arborlon.

Except perhaps for her mother, but confiding in her mother was no longer possible.

Ellich offered to accompany her home, but she dismissed the idea out of hand. She was a Druid trained in the use of magic; she needed no other protection. She walked with her backpack slung over one shoulder, inhaling the cool night air, enjoying the sweep of the starlit sky and thinking of Afrengill, wishing things could be different between them, knowing they might never be. How could they? Her mother didn’t speak to her anymore. They had been close once, but Aphenglow’s decision to become a Druid had brought an end to that.

Her father had died years earlier in a hunting accident, when Arlingfant was still very little, so Aphen and her mother had become the foundation and heart of the family unit. When she had decided to leave for Paranor, her mother had begged her not to go. She had insisted she could not manage on her own. Arlingfant was ten by then and old enough to give what help was needed, but it made no difference to their mother. Afrengill was no longer being rational, would not even try to be so, and they had parted ways screaming at each other while Arlingfant hid in her bedroom and cried.

On her first visit back, Aphenglow had gone to see her mother, intent on patching things up. She had walked up to the door and knocked. Afrengill had opened the door, stared at her wordlessly as she attempted to say how sorry she was, and closed the door again without a word. Arlingfant had been forced to sneak away to come see her, forbidden by their mother to have anything to do with her sister.

Each time on her return, Aphenglow went to her home and knocked on the door. By now, her mother rarely bothered to answer. Arlingfant said she wouldn’t even allow Aphenglow’s name to be spoken. Her daughter was dead to her, she declared. She was dead to all of them.

It hurt so much that even thinking of it brought a quick sob that caused her to catch her breath. Her mother, whom she loved, would have nothing to do with her, and even though Arlingfant insisted she would come around in time, Aphenglow was no longer sure.

In light of this, her uncle’s plea that she consider departing the Druid order to return to Arborlon had merit. Everything that was wrong with her life, that made her unhappy, could be traced to her decision to join the order. Was it time for her to leave? Was she not seeing things as clearly as she thought? She loved her work, her Druid companions, and the cause for which she labored so hard.

But maybe that wasn’t enough.

Maybe …

She was aware of the possibility of danger after the other night’s attack, her senses alert and her wards spread wide, so she sensed as much as heard the almost inaudible whisper of fabric as the black-clad figure hurtled out of the darkness behind her, and she threw herself aside in plenty of time to avoid his blade. She knew at once it was the same man who had attacked her last night. But last night he had caught her by surprise, and she had already made up her mind that he would not do so again. Ever since she had set out from the palace to have dinner with Ellich and Jera she had been watching and listening, anticipating that he might try again.

Even so, he had almost gotten to her.

She rolled and came back to her feet in a single fluid movement, dropping the backpack in the grass and bracing herself as he flew out of the darkness once more. Whoever he was, he did not give up easily. Instead of waiting on him, she counterattacked. She dropped sharply as they came together, rolled and swept her legs into his ankles, and took him off his feet. He lost his balance and went down, but was up again instantly. He came at her again, and she sidestepped another lunge with the blade. He was quick and practiced, and given enough time he would find his target. But she had her magic in place by then, flaring at her fingertips, and when he attacked once more, she used it. White light exploded out of her hands, picked him up, and flung him away like a rag doll. She used more force than she had intended, but there was no time to modulate or adjust. He catapulted backward as if yanked by a rope, slamming into a tree, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to cushion the blow and failed.

Down he went in a crumpled heap and lay there.

She approached him cautiously. There was no movement. She toed him gingerly, ready for him to spring up and attack anew. But he failed to respond. Still using her boot, she rolled him over. His head was bent awkwardly to one side, loose and unhinged.

His neck was broken.

Shades, she thought, appalled at what she had done.

She picked up the knife he had been carrying, which was lying to one side. It was a Southland weapon, forged in one of the Borderland Cities, probably in Varfleet where they did such skilled work with blades. She knelt next to him, still watchful, ready to respond if he moved. But when she pulled back the black hood that concealed his features, his eyes were fixed and staring. She studied his features, trying to place him.

She had never seen him before.

A search of his clothing turned up nothing that revealed who he was or where he had come from. He was a Man, not an Elf, and she felt a small ripple of gratitude for that. She did not want to think that there were Elves this anxious to see her dead.

Was killing her the dead man’s idea, or did he serve another?

She remembered there had been two of them last night …

She turned to look for the backpack, scanning the ground where she had dropped it, but it was gone. So, she thought: one man to attack her and one to steal the bag. A small variation on last night’s attack, and this time they’d had better success.

She glanced out into the darkness and down the pathway, but there was nothing to see. The second attacker would be far away by now. He would not stop until he was safe and could examine the contents of her bag at his leisure. She wished she could be there to see his face when he opened it and found it stuffed with old maps and a couple of books on the care and feeding of hogs.

She smiled in spite of herself. She knew a trick or two. She had been expecting the attack and had left nothing to chance. The diary was back at the palace, down in one of the storerooms, safely tucked away where only she could find it. After last night’s assault, she wasn’t about to take foolish chances.

What she could not decide was how her attackers knew about the diary in the first place. How could anyone have found out about it in so short a time?

Whatever the answer to her question, it was clear that someone wanted it as badly as she did and would kill to get it. Using an assassin as skilled as the dead man was a clear indication of their determination. It changed her thinking measurably. She was no longer equivocating about what she must do.

She went back to the assassin, knelt beside him, and spoke a Druid grace to give him peace and forgiveness. Even the worst of the dead deserved that much.

Then she rose and went to find her sister to say good-bye.

It was time to return to Paranor.

^{Interior maps copyright © 2012 by David A. Cherry}