3: Ashes of the Past

Phantoms moved around him, speaking softly as if from far away. Tal tried to focus on them, to reach out and touch them, but his fingers found nothing. They were just out of grasp, if they were there at all.

“Ashelia?” he whispered.

The blurred face above him resolved, and he recoiled. Its skin was hard and edged in rough layers like the bark of a gnarled oak. Its eyes were laced with green veins as if vines grew through them. As the maggot lips smiled, the teeth were black and barbed like the stingers of bees.

“Wake up, Tal, you cursed fool,” a familiar voice came from the oaken face.

Tal blinked, and the horrific face resolved into Aelyn’s scowling countenance. The mage’s head was bare, his pointed ears on display through his black, braided hair, and his bronze eyes narrowed as he stared down at him. 

“What happened to you?” Aelyn demanded. “I purged the common corruptions, but you remain delirious.”

Tal closed his eyes as the World slowly continued to spin around him. 

“It’s not a new poison, but an old one,” he muttered. Each word came out garbled, his tongue and mouth defying his will to form them. His skin felt both feverish and chilled, and his body ached to the bones with the fire burning inside him.

“My side,” he tried to clarify as he squinted up at the mage, willing him to understand.

“The wound you took from the Thorn?” Aelyn’s mouth twisted as he matter-of-factly lifted Tal’s shirt away, cutting where it stuck to bloody wounds, then bent forward to examine it. “Hm. It’s open again, though only slightly. You’ll need the runes repaired.”

He worked his tongue over his chapped lips. “Only one person should repair those.”

“Yes. The one who first wrote them.” The elf’s smirk widened. “It seems you cannot stay away from my House-sister after all.”

Tal groaned, and only in part from the pain wracking his body.

He slowly took in their surroundings. They were in one of the covered wagons. Bags of foodstuff—including onions, from the stench—lay underneath him as a makeshift bed. Aelyn, tall as he was, had to remain stooped to continue his healing. The flap was closed, but he could see a faint brightening against the canvas that was more golden than a fire’s glow. Day was breaking.

The night’s activities reasserted themselves. He found Aelyn’s gaze. “They’re all dead?”

The mage nodded. “Or fled. Unless more hung back, only two at most escaped. You performed well, Magebutcher. And you know I don’t hand out compliments.”

At another time, Tal would have lorded the moment of civility over him. But fear and pain weighed down his levity. 

“Our people?”

Aelyn’s smile fled. “There were some... casualties.”

His chest clenched too tightly to breathe. “Who?”

The elf looked aside. “We fared well, all things considered. Falcon is alive, as are Wren and Garin. But we did lose one: Mikael, the goblin, stabbed an Easterner from the shadows and paid for it. Some others took minor injuries, while the Befal human, the one they call Ox, took many wounds protecting the others. But he’ll survive.”

Tal stared at the canvas above him, not bothering to wipe his eyes. Mikael, the laughing jester... No more pranks for him, he thought bitterly. You made sure of that.

He’d had his fair share of deaths settled upon his shoulders. But he’d thought those days were past. Yet here it was, the blame clear and unavoidable before him. He’d asked Falcon to bring the troupe with them to Elendol as a cover for their true purposes. He’d brought them into this peril.

He’d killed Mikael as surely as if he’d driven a dagger through his heart.

Tal sat up again, fighting through a sudden wave of pain and nauseating heat. A trickle of wetness down his side made his torn shirt stick again to his skin.

Aelyn watched him with a twisted smile. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To protect the caravan,” Tal wheezed as he put one leaden foot under him, then the other, and levered himself up. “There might be others out there.”

“If there are, I doubt they’ll attack again. Prime Helnor is at least capable of handling a perimeter defense.”

Tal had to steady himself against the wagon’s wall and nearly fell over as his hand sunk into the canvas. “Helnor?” he managed. “He’s here?”

“He arrived an hour ago, just after we’d put out the fires. Too late to be of use, I might note.”

Tal ignored him and kept his gaze on his feet as he navigated the haphazard floor. Finally, he reached the wagon’s flap and nearly fell out as he pulled it back. The camp swarmed with people, the figures swimming before his unsteady vision. He could see well enough to notice most of them were strangers and clad in a way he hadn’t seen in many years.

He knew them to be Warders, the guardians of Gladelyl’s borders. Equipped both to ride for days at a time upon stors, their stag-like mounts, to fight any enemies they encountered, their protection consisted mostly of brown leather and amber-hued, petrified bark. The bark, made light by enchantment and cleverly arrayed like scales, came from their massive trees, the elder mangroves called “kintrees” that formed the bones of their cities and towns. It could as easily stop an arrow as a blade. Each had a sword belted at their side, light, single-edged sabers similar to those borne by Avendor’s cavalry. Some Warders still wore their helmets, most made of leather and bark, each of them unique to the individual. The rigidity of uniform that plagued the armies of the human realms of Avendor and Sendesh didn’t hold sway among the Gladelysh protectors, perhaps because their service could last for a century.

“Tal Harrenfel, you damned hero—come here and sit before you fall over!”

Tal turned to see a familiar Warder approaching him. Prime Helnor wore a broad grin as he approached, though in the reserved fashion of the elves, he made no move to touch him. The growing dawn’s light caught in his loose, long curls, turning the blonde hair golden and brightening the tattoos inked across his face to the yellow-green of newborn leaves. Though his face was ordinarily smooth but for his white-lined scars, his brow creased as he looked Tal up and down.

“Mother’s name, Tal, but what happened to you?”

He had only enough energy to shrug. “You’ve seen the camp.”

“And could scarcely believe my eyes. Do you know how many of the kolfash bodies we found? Eighteen. Eighteen, Tal!” Helnor laughed, and his eyes, silver dancing through amber irises, were bright as he stared at Tal. “I would have been hard-pressed to accomplish the same myself!”

Tal winced, and not only at the praise. “I’d prefer you didn’t use that word around me, Helnor. You know who my friends are.”

The laughter died in the Prime’s eyes. “Kolfash? Yes, I suppose I know. And for you, I’ll keep the Mother’s own patience. Besides, your half-kin friend isn’t the worst to walk the streets of Elendol these days.”

“I’ll hear more of that later. But as good as it is to see you, old friend, I have a charge to look after. I assume you’ll escort us?” 

“Kolesa would never forgive me if I didn’t, would she?”

Tal gave a wan smile, trying to hide the nervous thrill his allusion sent through him, then he made to move past Helnor. But no sooner had he placed his foot than all the strength went out of his leg.

He didn’t quite reach the ground, for steady arms caught him. 

“Never did know your limits,” Helnor chastised.

The Prime Warder lifted him up, the tall man making easy of the task, and Tal groaned a protest. But even his dignity seemed too much effort to maintain.

“Tal!”

Though drowsiness was quickly overtaking him, he let his head fall to the side and tried focusing his vision. Wren and Falcon stood next to him, eyes spinning with concern.

The minstrel placed his one hand across Tal’s forehead and shook his head. “Hell’s fires, my friend, but you’re a damned fool. Why didn’t you stay put? Too good for a bed of onions?”

“I still have standards,” Tal wheezed.

“Standards get you killed,” Wren observed sagely with a raised eyebrow. But she briefly pressed his hand before stepping back.

Tal moved his eyes sluggishly around. “Garin?”

Wren and Falcon exchanged a glance. 

“He’s busy helping pack up camp,” the lass said.

Tal had to give it to her—he couldn’t hear the lie in her voice. He closed his eyes. “As long as he’s safe,” he murmured, “I haven’t entirely failed him.”

Then he remembered who he hadn’t saved. “I heard about Mikael. I’m sorry, both of you. I couldn’t protect him.”

He felt his hand squeezed tightly. “Stubborn old fool,” Falcon said, his voice choked. “We all knew the risks.”

And what’s life without the spark of risk? As his own saying came back to him, and a mocking smile curled his lips just before oblivion swallowed him once more.

* * *

Garin watched as his one-time mentor went slack in the arms of the warrior elf. His feet longed to move, his hands twitched for something to do, but he kept himself hidden behind the wagon. Tal hadn’t seen him, and he had no intention of letting him.

I just don’t want him to die by someone else’s hand, he told himself.

The silence seemed to mock him.

Turning away, he began ambling around the camp. Ashes sifted beneath his boots, rising in small squalls to further stain his pants. Even in the dawning light, the surrounding trees looked like deathly specters, black, jagged shapes charred from the night’s fires. Some of the encompassing forest had caught, but the magic of the elven scouts—Warders, he’d heard them called—had extinguished them before they’d spread much beyond their camp.

Garin looked up to find someone watching him, and he abruptly turned away. Brother Causticus’ gaze was never comfortable, but it was all the less so with the black thoughts on his mind. The monk’s eyes followed him until he turned out of sight behind a wagon.

Even as he breathed a sigh of relief, his thoughts turned down other dark paths. The Singer had tried to lure him again and gain control. He wondered how long it would be before he gave in. Was defeat inevitable? 

He knew little of the devil, and less of the Nightsong. How were they connected? Did the devil “sing” the Song? Or was it the other way around, that the Nightsong caused the Singer to exist? 

More than ever, he longed for answers. But he who might know more was the one person he couldn’t speak to.

“Young lenual. Are you well?”

Garin startled and turned toward the lilting voice. A female Warder leaned against a wagon, her light gray eyes swirling with the gray of thunderclouds as she studied him. As with most of the elven warriors, she was taller than him, yet slender despite the toned muscles evident beneath her armor. An emerald tattoo, as intricate as the lace on the noblewomen’s dresses in the Coral Castle, spiraled across the earthy brown skin of her face, forming patterns Garin could almost recognize. Her tightly curled, brown-blonde hair was bound in thick braids.

The Warder smiled, and Garin felt his tongue tie itself into further knots. She was enchanting in a way he’d only glimpsed in Wren before. A few of the women in Halenhol had been beautiful, but buttresses of paints and powders had supported their delicate elegance. This warrior elf’s features were far from soft, yet she possessed about her a wild allure he couldn’t explain, like the thrill of standing on a bridge over a surging river.

The elf finally broke the silence. “I’ve startled you—my apologies. I only wished to see if you were well.”

Too late, Garin tried to dredge up his manners. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

She waved a hand. “No need for that. It was a shocking night for you.”

Her words were lightly accented, pleasantly curling familiar words in his ears.

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“You are Garin, are you not?”

His ears burned. “How did you know?”

She smiled again. “We had word of your coming. And there are few lenual youths among your party.”

“Lenual?”

“’Human’ in Gladelyshi. The first of many words you’ll learn in my tongue, if you stay in Elendol long.”

He hoped she didn’t know why he’d come. If they’d been warned to expect him, it couldn’t just be for the “dancing lessons” that King Aldric had been told he came for. But under her stormy gaze, he smiled all the same.

“Garin?”

He spun and saw Wren coming around the other end of the wagon. Something behind her eyes eased as she walked toward him, at least until she saw the elvish warrior.

“Hello,” she said warily, stopping at a distance.

The Warder only smiled. “Don’t worry, little half-kin. I don’t share the outrage of my peers. I serve as a Warder, don’t I?”

Garin knew he should keep out of whatever hovered between Wren and the elf, but he couldn’t help himself. “What do you mean?”

The woman’s eyes came back to him. “Elves are even more rigid in their beliefs than humans. While women often keep to certain roles, and they may be frowned upon when deviating from those, there have been exceptions in your history. The Warrior Queen Jalenna, for one, and the Witch of Jalduaen, who purified the Scourge from the Nortveld Barrows. But among our people, each is held to their caste—male and female, Highkin and Low.”

“And kolfash,” Wren observed coolly.

The Warder regarded Wren, her expression unchanging. “And half-kin, too.”

As much to break their gaze as out of curiosity, Garin asked, “Do women not become warriors in Gladelyl?”

“Until recently, they were not even allowed to hold a sword, nor any blade larger than a table knife,” the elf replied. “No woman has been a blacksmith, warrior, or even a tanner in the length of our history.”

Garin frowned. “But a queen rules you. If women wanted to do those things, wouldn’t she change the rules?”

The Warder shook her head. “Even a queen’s command is limited by the ignorance of men. And not men only—many women, too, wish for things to remain as they are. In Gladelysh society, change comes slowly. Perhaps they feel threatened by the possibility of all they could have become, but now believe they cannot.”

“You carry a sword,” Wren observed snidely.

“Yes.” The Warder’s hand fell to her hilt, not threateningly, but almost as a caress. “Some time ago, long by lenual reckoning, I convinced a man to teach me the blade, even though it was forbidden. Ever since, I’ve observed the best dancers among us and practiced what I’ve seen. A poor education, but it was the best I could manage. Yet it was enough that when the Peers’ House came to Queen Geminia with their demands to open the borders to the Empire, she countered with her own requirements: that the castes, too, be opened, and the limitations of gender with them. In one fell swoop, Elendol as we’ve known it changed. Time will tell if it was for the better.

“But change didn’t come quite so easily. When the Peers demanded that Her Eminence show them a woman who could wield a sword, Queen Geminia, in her prescience, called me forward. I was given a blade and put before the finest of our dancers, Ulen Yulnaed—Windlofted, in the Reachtongue.”

“And you bested him.” Wren gave the Warder a droll smile.

The elf didn’t return it. “I did not. Ulen was gentle and did me no permanent harm, but his House is among the Eastern Sympathists, and he didn’t spare me any humiliation. But when I could no longer hold a sword, the Queen held up her hand and pointed to me, and said, ‘She is a healer. She is a mother. She is a woman. Yet see her fire, her spirit, burning as bright as any male’s. Had she been trained all her life as Ulen Windlofted has, I do not know that even he could have bested her.’

“I thought they’d laugh and jeer. I lay bruised and beaten before the Queen’s court, so ashamed of my poor performance I could not lift my eyes. But at that moment, no one spoke against Her Eminence’s words. And so she decreed that any woman who wished to learn to dance, or forge a blade, or skin a hunt’s prey, could do so.” The Warder’s chin lifted, and the dark gray in her eyes swirled as if daring them to challenge her.

Garin wouldn’t have dreamed of it, even if he’d had the words. And a glance at Wren showed a new emotion shining in her eyes.

“Warder Venaliel!”

The Warder pivoted, suddenly stiff at the sharp command. “Prime.”

The Warder in charge of the others, Prime Helnor, stepped into view. Though a smile had often been on his lips as he’d taken over command of the caravan, his bright eyes were hard as they fell on the elvish woman. Garin’s gut tightened. He longed to rush to her defense, even as he knew how little good that would do.

“If you insist on acting the Warder,” the Prime said, “then you must at least pretend to play your part.”

The Warder’s eyes swirled. “I was looking after the youth, Helnor. Or were we not told to ensure Garin’s safety?”

“Delaying the caravan’s departure does nothing to help that. And you’ll use my title when we’re on patrol, Kolesa, or this will be your last.”

“I will, Prime Venaliel. So long as you treat me as you do the others.”

Helnor looked as if he would say more, but he instead clamped his mouth shut. As Garin looked between them, a realization slowly dawned on him. Their features, their tattoos, and most of all, their shared name revealed who they were to each other.

“You’re related, aren’t you?” he said, only thinking better of it after the words left his mouth.

Both elves turned to face him, and it was all Garin could do not to wince.

“Unfortunately,” the Prime responded. His gaze snapped back to the woman. “If you can leave off your act for a moment, you might apply your Mother-given talents somewhere they’re needed. He’s suffering, Kolesa. And if he knew you were here and didn’t come—“

“I told you, I can do nothing for that wound that our belosi could not. Once we reach civilization, I will treat him.”

Helnor held her gaze for a long moment, but when she didn’t move, he exhaled sharply, turned, and strode away. The female Warder looked after him for a long moment before the rigidity left her. Her eyes fell to her boots.

Garin glanced at Wren. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slightly parted. Before he could whisper a question, though, the Warder spoke.

“Helnor may be stubborn, but he’s the Prime. You should both find a wagon to ride in—the Easterners released most of your horses during the attack, so there won’t be any to ride.” 

With that, the Warder turned and followed after Prime Helnor.

His mind turned with all he’d discovered. “Do you know what just happened?” he asked Wren.

She looked at him like he was dim. “They’re related, Garin, like you said. Even more, they’re siblings—kolesa means ‘sister.’”

“I’d figured out that much. But—“

“You still don’t know who she is, do you? Venaliel, her House-name, means ‘Starkissed’—does that ring a bell?”

A memory, a faint melody, came slowly back to him. In a lilting, half-singing voice, he murmured, “He came to her in the night, the moon lighting his way.”

Wren took up the verse, gold spinning in her eyes. “Though love to them was forbidden by day.”

“With leaves as their blankets, and boughs as their shields.”

“Each took to the other, and gave all the World would not yield.”

“And when only the stars remained awake.”

“He whispered her name with a thirst he could not slake.”

“’Ashelia Starkissed,’” Garin murmured, “her very name, his wedding bell.”

“But in the end, love would be denied both her and Tal Harrenfel.”

Though anger stirred in him at Tal’s name, Garin focused on their discovery. “Ashelia. She’s his long-lost lover of legend. But was it true?”

“Father always said it was.” Wren shrugged. “But we both know you can’t believe much of his stories. We’ll think on it later. You heard Prime Helnor—it’s time to leave. Mikael wouldn’t want us to linger.”

The goblin’s death coming to the fore of his mind again, Garin’s shoulders sagged. He nodded and followed Wren back among the caravan.