Paul Thompson - Alliances

With much trepidation, he resolved to do it. He had little choice. His habit of remaining within a day’s walk of the creek meant he was stripping the land thereabouts of its meager provender. If he was going to discover the secret of Inath-Wakenti before he starved, he had to forsake safety and go to the eastern mountains.

He ate raw watercress and pondered how to carry the water he would need for his journey. It was a cool day, with a bright blue sky quartered by white cloudbanks. As he watched the clouds sail in stately fashion from east to west, he became aware of movement nearby. He’d spent so much time alone, he was very sensitive to the slightest motion. Lowering his eyes, he saw someone standing on the eastern shore of the stream. Favaronas recoiled so hard he fell backward.

The morning sun was brilliant behind a figure wrapped head to toe in layers of dusty dark cloth. The robes were so bulky, the stranger hidden so completely by them, he could be elf, human, or draconian.

“Who are you?” Favaronas called out.

He hadn’t spoken in so long, his own voice sounded strange to him. When he’d first come to the valley, he’d talked to himself, as much for company as anything, but he’d soon stopped. Somehow it seemed wrong to disturb the silence.

The robed stranger did not reply. Instead, he began to move, gliding across the water. His sandaled feet touched the surface of the creek but didn’t break through. Favaronas yelled. Before he could gain his feet and run, the stranger was in front of him.

“Rise and face me, Favaronas.” The stranger’s voice was low, its cadence deliberate.

“Who are you?”

“A seeker of knowledge, like you. Serve me, and I will protect you. I need someone who knows these ruins.”

Honesty compelled Favaronas to disclaim such expertise since he hadn’t dared venture more than a day’s walk from the creek.

The robed figure asked what he feared. That was all the prompting the desperately lonely scholar needed. He told of the ghost he’d seen in a tunnel beneath the monoliths, the colored lights whose touch caused elves to vanish, and most bizarre of all, his encounter just outside the valley entrance with four half elf, half animal females.

The stranger cried, “This is just the knowledge I need!” He withdrew his hands from where they’d been hidden within his wide sleeves and gestured excitedly. “I am a mage, Favaronas. With my protection, you can venture away from the shelter of this stream. I will defend us both.”

Judging by the shape and size of those pale hands, Favaronas felt sure he was in the presence of an elf. Somewhat emboldened, he asked the stranger’s name.

“Faeterus.”

The name was familiar. Favaronas felt certain he’d heard it in Khurinost. “Did the Speaker send you?” he asked.

A humorless chuckle sounded inside the deep hood. “I am here at no one’s behest but my own.”

Favaronas was torn. The strange elf’s confidence was reassuring, but there was something unsavory about him, something more than his bulky, uncomfortable-looking robes. It was disquieting to know he’d heard of the mage in Khurinost, yet the fellow wasn’t one of the Speaker’s advisors. Skilled mages were in very short supply, and the elf nation needed every source of power it could obtain. The Speaker’s edicts wouldn’t allow a rogue mage to practice his art openly. There were some elves in the world who did not acknowledge the Speaker’s authority. What kind of person was Faeterus?

“Follow me, Favaronas! You will learn the answers to all the questions crowding your mind.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“Then I leave you to your fate. The mysteries of this valley will claim you, and you will never know why!”

Favaronas considered a moment more, but really, what choice did he have? He would be safer with a companion than alone. “I will go with you. Not as your servant or subject, but as a colleague.”

His bold statement fell rather flat. Faeterus’s attention had been diverted by movement in the bushes farther down the creek’s western shore. Although faint, the noise was impossible to mistake. Inath-Wakenti was devoid of singing birds, chattering squirrels, or buzzing insects, but something was moving.

Whatever it was, it seemed to upset the mage, perhaps even frighten him. His lordly manner vanished, replaced by haste.

“Yes, yes. Colleagues. Now let us depart!”

Favaronas wouldn’t be rushed. He didn’t have many possessions but wouldn’t leave behind those few he owned, especially the stone scrolls.

“Very well,” Faeterus said. “Gather your things. Make for the eastern mountains. I will join you later.”

“Later? But I don’t—”

The rustling in the bushes grew louder, and the mage gave up all pretence of calm. “Remember our agreement!” he commanded then vanished. One moment he was there, ragged and bulky, the next, he was not. As Favaronas stared, even the impressions left by the mage’s feet on the bluish soil rose up and smoothed away.

The disturbance in the bushes did not worry Favaronas. The valley’s ghosts came out only at night, and they never crossed to his side of the creek. Nomads never entered the valley at all, for it was taboo in their religion. If someone was here, it could only mean the Speaker had sent another expedition, perhaps to find his favorite librarian?

He turned to retrace the route to his campsite and shrieked in surprise.

An elf stood by the bushes a few yards away.

“Who are you?” Favaronas was frightened but he was also angry. Weeks of utter solitude and two strangers appeared within moments of each other!

The fellow was no member of the royal guard. He was a Kagonesti but dressed more like a human. Eschewing the usual fringed buckskins and turquoise jewelry, he wore a leather jerkin, suede trews, and ankle-high canvas boots. Beneath a brown leather hunter’s cap, short hair framed a face bare of paint or tattoos. On his nose were perched wire-framed spectacles with bright yellow lenses.

“Peace,” he said. “My name is Robien. I mean you no harm.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a hunter.”

Favaronas frowned. “There’s no game in this valley.”

Robien removed his odd spectacles and tucked them carefully into a pocket in his jerkin. “Oh, yes there is,” he said quite pleasantly. “You were just speaking to him.”

Porthios sat by Alhana, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay on her back, hands folded at her waist, her head turned slightly to the right, toward him. A small droplet of blood appeared from one nostril, standing out against her pearl skin like ink on snow. He gently blotted it away with the tip of a gloved finger.

The two of them were alone, or as close as made no difference. After an hour sitting stiffly upright with Alhana, Chathendor had at last ceded his place and crawled a few yards away to sleep. The rest of the column had moved into concealment in the woods. No sounds or firelight betrayed their position, but a part of Porthios’s mind knew they were there. The larger portion knew only Alhana, and anger.

Alhana did not deserve this fate. During the blackest days of his recovery, Porthios had built a picture of his wife’s last moments. That dream allowed him to cling to the shreds of his sanity as his body healed. It did not entail their reunion. No thought of that ever entered his mind once he knew the extent of his injuries. He could never impose his hideous existence on one so beautiful, so refined and good. Instead, his dream was of a day, many decades distant, when Alhana was on her deathbed. A small golden box would be delivered to her. It would contain his ring and a short scroll detailing his reasons for staying away. She would read the scroll and finally know the depth of his love. She would shed a tear for his unshakable honor and perfect devotion, then, gently and painlessly, life would leave Alhana Starbreeze.