ESSAYING AN ENIGMATIC HALF-SMILE, the Elf stretched her long legs to whisk them away among the boulders, away from Sabline and in the opposite direction from Yaarah’s huffy presence. The golden one gazed out over the waters. What could he be thinking? Allory did the same. As Ashueli detoured slightly to stride along an easier path, she observed horizontal water marks on the boulders that proclaimed the flood had already begun to recede. Had this land ever in all its aeons seen such a deluge?
Hard not to feel as if part of her had tarried in that cavern with the Scintillants she had met so briefly. What a pang of grief, to find and lose them within the space of minutes.
Jynnari. Would she discover him in a history book? Him and a Scintillant rebellion?
A little higher up, the Elf knelt in the lee of an onyx boulder no less than seventeen feet tall and showed her several patches of tiny green sprouts from which delicate bell-shaped flowers of the tazhi family depended, a mix of pink, coral and white colours. More than enough pollen and nectar to feed five Fae.
“Perfect,” Allory smiled.
“Eat well. You deserve it.”
Did she? Having battled nightmares and then woken to a day-mare?
When Allory touched down, the Elf sprang upward without warning, scaling the vertical face of the boulder and vanishing from sight – although, she sensed her protective nearness.
Ha, Sweetblades by name, sweet blades by nature.
Maybe she was some sort of sensitive material after all, bless that silly golden scholar for his not-so-madcap ideas. After dealing with Sabline, Allory felt sick rather than hungry, but she also knew that Ashueli was right. A nibble here and a sip there, and a Fae soon began to perk up with a lovely, sugary buzz running through her enervated body. Too much sugar, however, and she’d be flying in somersaults giggling hysterically. Best pause when her stomach groaned pleasantly. Before –
Buzz! Thump. “Suggids.” She rubbed her forehead. Bruised antenna.
A body shifted above, waving corkscrew tendrils of sable shadow-hair over her left foot.
Panic … no panic! Double suggids slathered in nectar. “I’m fine. Just beating up this boulder with my head,” she called, and walked up the vertical face too, mostly to burn off that buzz that threatened to jangle her teeth out of their sockets.
She and the Princess sat together for a long while, watching the dusky sunlight filtering through a noticeable haze in the air to irradiate the Canyonlands with beams of mauve light so thick, they appeared almost viscous, to flow down from above in slow, sultry waves that held promise of the day’s heat. Ariavanae, or merely heat energy? Ashueli seemed to be in no mood to speak. Only her eyes moved, searching the expanse restively. The natural folds of barrenness, of each separate ridge and valley, took on slight variations of shading, deeper purples and umber and subtle ochre, until the stark beauty fairly took her breath away.
Perhaps an hour later, Allory took her courage into her tiny blue hands, walked boldly up the royal arm and started tidying up her hair. “Can’t have a Princess looking even slightly scruffy. Would you look at these double-helix curls? Here’s a triple.”
“Humidity turns my hair poufy.”
“It would be so, so pretty if you styled it just right. I could even recommend a conditioning sap that would really bring out this fabulous natural curl.”
Ash sighed moodily, not exactly picking up on the girly vibes.
Allory ventured, “Thoughts of a special someone?”
The girl burst out, “I only wish – sorry!”
“Why the boom and blast?”
Lowering her hand with which she had tried to steady a Faerie who in theory could outfly a bat, she said, “The truth is, Allory … oh, I might as well say it. Father sent out my contract.”
“Er …”
“Suggids! Sorry. I’m saying that a lot, I know, but let me explain. The technical term is a ‘prenuptial acquisition contract.’ Essentially, I am to be sold into a loveless marriage with some rich person I’ve never met via a secret bidding process.”
“Yeeee-owwwchhh.”
Much as she and Yaarah had suspected.
“Aye. My mother told me she suspects there have already been a number of solid expressions of interest in my bride price and that the bidding might be close to completion. True to form, however, Durc Durhelm likes to play his cards close to his chest. I expected a certain announcement for my birthday – not a pet Scintillant Faerie in a cage, if you follow my meaning.”
“I do.”
Allory frowned slightly. From what she had sensed of the girl’s mother, it struck her now as peculiar that Ashueli’s situation might be quite so straightforward. Loveless marriage? A bidding war for the beauty’s hand? Yuck, but what role might a powerful mother play in such a situation? Zinueli Sylvanchild was no fool, of that she was absolutely convinced. Would she not have plans for her daughter? Devious plans … that allowed for and even encouraged escape?
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She racked her brains but could come up with no scenarios that possibly made sense. Not that she had much experience with either the Human or Elven cultures, mind, except that enduring recollection of Human stink. Truly special.
Similarly, something stank here.
Follow the stink to the truth. Excellent strategy, wiser perhaps than she had ever imagined.
Neutrally, she said, “You hid that well, my friend.”
“I’ve been taught to from a very young age, Allory. It’s not a nice-to-have in Durhelm Castle, it’s a survival necessity.” Her shoulders shook with another sigh. “It was only when I saw you peering through the bars of my cage that I truly realised what my life had become. No man will chain me with a marriage contract! I’d rather die. I’d be like you were in that cage. I knew in that moment that all I meant to my father, all those years, all the doting and presents and tender care, was the promise of plentiful payment for a pretty face. Do you know how deeply that hurts? Does anyone?”
“I’m sorry –”
“No, I am!” she snapped, only to groan almost in the same breath. Hesitantly, she raised her hand and touched Allory’s back. “You’re too kind, my friend. You know, of course you do. How could I suggest otherwise? What were your people to those Marakusian Slavers? Nothing but a jingling purse. You know all too well the face of greed and … inhumanity. What a weird word. As if inhumane acts are limited to Humans!”
Her Scintillant kind were only a purse? Aye, to some. Clearly. Yet to some other power, they represented a far, far greater prize altogether, if she was not mistaken. Thanks to the Pixies they had a good idea what exactly that prize might be.
Hope those Scintillants were alright. Somehow.
Jynnari had called her his descendant. Talk about freaking a girlfae’s sap right out of her tiny body …
Lowering her voice, the Elf added, “Actually, if I’m honest, I also realised I’m not as strong as I look. I’m terrified of being caged and used by some husband I barely know and don’t even love, so terrified that the minute I laid eyes upon you I knew you might be my chance, my only chance – which sounds terrible, I know, but our heart-logic leaps in ways that are impossible to command and I’m sorry if that sounds direct or even hateful, but if you really want to know me, that’s the truth. I smelled opportunity before I even bothered to learn who you are, someone who’s special in ways I will never be. Oh, suggids!”
“It’s alright –”
“No, it’s not! When I get angry, my tongue starts to run away with me and I … I just feel as if I’m sitting on a volcano. Like right now.”
True. A very apt word-picture of what she sensed bubbling inside the Princess.
Allory bit the first, furious response off her own tongue. She was one to talk. She, whose heart had wickedly celebrated the capture of her own family – even if only for a moment, in one sense. A sense that she repudiated in every bone of her body. Why had no-one ever taught her how treacherous the heart could be?
Probably, because only life’s experience could teach such a lesson.
Yet here beside her, a new friend sat in humiliated silence, thinking herself the worst person in the world.
Allory opened her mouth and heard herself say, “That’s your innate magic singing.”
Wince. Oh, suggids. Please tell me I didn’t just take the coward’s path?
A hollow chuckle disabused her of that notion. “Elves don’t have combat magic, Allory Fae. Well, I mean, we don’t throw fireballs and stuff. That’s for the Faroon, Geminids and Sangalese. Apart from the Dark Elves, the Ahlumviar. They – sorry, I’m lecturing now. Too much listening to our Felidragon friend.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it’s … complicated. I’ve three times visited the Dark Elf capital of Chor-Ahm Syliasa – six years ago was the last time, I guess, for warrior training. The Dark Elves are celebrated warriors, without parallel amongst the Elvenkind.”
The dark hair trailed obscured her face in gorgeous corkscrew curls as Ash descended into one of her brooding silences. Maybe a trainee sparkler could draw her out, gently stir the nectar? Verbal prod in the ribs? Sparkly slap over the earhole?
“I only know of the Ahlumviar from our old tales,” Allory admitted. “Tell me more?”
Tucking her hair back behind one tall, pointy ear, Ashueli glanced over and smiled, “I loved it there. They are called Dark Elves after their skin colouration, which is a rich mahogany, night crimson, dark blue or deep green. They take the name as a compliment. Their skin has a kind of organic crystalline sheen, which is so beautiful in their shining cities of living crystal. Everything about their homes is steeped in crystalline light. The Dark Elves usually have silver, azure or blonde hair, invariably of very light hue, however, which makes them physically striking. They are the tallest of the Elven races, lithe and strong. Their features appear to be carved from crystal … it’s hard to describe, I guess. It’s also hard to imagine a people more different to mine, the Synshuviar of the forest glades.”
“You enjoyed your time there?”
“Chor-Ahm Syliasa is incredible,” she admitted, her inner eyes clearly fixed upon another time, another place. “Incredible but challenging. The Dark Elves follow a rigid warrior code, a code of honour and duty above all else. Some would call their way of life austere.”
Tugging on a lock of the girl’s hair, she put in pertly, “Any handsome ones?”
“As if I’d admit that.”
“Ooh?”
“Oh, fine. Some of them are just rugged, Allory Fae. Tall and muscular and oozing temptation. As a thirteen-year-old, going on fourteen, I may have been accused of numerous episodes of unsociable drooling over the pickings. I mean, there’s manly and there’s ‘oh my ancestors I’m going to faint’ manly, if you know what I mean?” She giggled merrily, “Don’t you nod like that, you rascal. If you saw a Dark Elf … never mind. I am a vain, shallow mirror-smiler. Better?”
“If I agree, will it hurt?”
“A lot,” the Princess pouted, and then chuckled sunnily, “So, one minor issue with that line of thinking. The Ahlumviar do not wed – I mean, their equivalent of wed, as I understand it – outside of their circle of … well, tribes is the best translation of their word, which oddly, includes several groups that most scholars would argue are more Faerie than Elf, but there it is. Yumminess to die for, but only for the eyeballs. No touchy-touchy.”
She waggled her fingers to emphasize the joke, but then dropped them into her lap with a glum sigh. Aye. Whatever she had, she had it bad. What secret longing lay beneath her tale?
“Terrible shame.”
“Waste of phenomenal potential,” the Princess agreed, with a bold wink. “Enough of this line of conversation or I’ll start the unroyal salivating again. Nasty and antisocial. Let me tell you about Chor-Ahm Syliasa, and then we should work on your training, and mine.”
Training again? So driven.
Martial arts training was close to dancing, was it not? Allory thrust the thought away in a flash of annoyance. No. Not that. Never again.
Little Faelings should learn never to say never …