Then history arrives at the Battle of Etnfrandia. The annals of men speak of a dark day when they were routed before the enemy and fled toward the fortress of the elves, the Everland. Their accounts describe an outpouring of elves coming from the fortress, more than the grounds could hold. But the machinations of the Night Elves were great, and the might of the Hehinians greater. We held the line for most of a day before defenses began to collapse.
-Fennorin’s Guide to Elven History, First Ed. UE 2342
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UE 2373. RECOLLECTION YEAR.
FENNORIN.
Fenn could see his breath puffing in front of him in the early-spring night; could hear the footfalls of his four companions, the whipping of branches as they ran. Not fast enough. The Everguard’s torches dotted the forest behind them. With every breath, his mind tortured him with the images of his fears: his companions locked in cold, stone cells deep in the mountain. Alone. Separated from family and friends, dreams and aspirations. And it would be his fault.
If they could only reach the Door between Realms, they would be safe. Relatively.
He plunged deeper into his desperate scramble, diving between the clawed branches that reached for him out of the dark. Nightfall was little hindrance to him, but the same could not be said for them all.
Fenn heard a sharp crack. He glanced behind him. At the rear, the hefty drakeman stumbled over a freshly splintered log. In his claws, he propelled a dark-blind Mell as she choked on her exhaustion. At the noise, the lights of the torches closed in, casting a maze of long shadows around them. They illuminated the terror that plastered Galendria’s face. Syrdin, all but a shadow in the dark, chased beside her.
Fenn ducked forward. Almost there. Just a couple hundred strides more and he could open the Door so they could escape. Anruwan help us! Give us strength! He didn’t know if the gods paid attention to the elves anymore, or if they could even hear him from this plane, but he’d try anything.
A guard shouted for their lights to go out. In the darkness, someone’s footfalls were right behind them, another to the side.
“Syrdin!” That was Mell’s gasping voice.
A crash in the underbrush told him that Syrdin knocked over one of the Everguard.
Another guard came careening out of the trees toward—
“Gale!” Fenn felt his panic rise. He began to turn. She wasn’t even supposed to be part of this, and now she was in trouble. My fault. I shouldn’t have allowed—
“Got it!” Syrdin hissed in answer.
“Grubby hands off, you raggabrash!” Just as the guard reached Gale, her shrieked words released an instant pulse of… magic? Silver lights flashed from her mouth like small spears reaching toward the guard. The guard faltered in his steps, but too late. He ran through the misty spears unharmed and crashed into her, the two elves tumbling to the ground.
As the guard reached for his blade, Fenn skidded to a halt, dumbstruck as much by the revelation that Gale had yet another spell as by the idea of engaging in violence.
Syrdin didn’t hesitate. The guard was disarmed before he had a chance to rise, Syrdin perched on his chestplate.
“Go!” The little hooded elf called. Fenn obeyed, Galendria scrambling up just a few steps behind him.
He heard the clang of metal on metal. He pressed away pictures of lean, gray-skinned traitors standing over the bloodied bodies of men and elves, grotesque paintings of the historical Battle between Night Elves and his nation. Please don’t kill them, Syrdin. Those could be his cousins, his brothers even.
“Watch out!” Gale screeched at him.
Whipping his head forward, Fenn found himself face-to-face with Captain Gesria flanked by two of her troops. He nearly toppled into a collision with her, his former platoon-mate from his conscription period.
He forced a gasping breath to slow in his lungs, then stood upright. I must save us. This she-elf, someone he once had called friend, now stood between his companions and their escape, and between himself and the path to the truth. But I don’t want to fight.
“Move aside,” he commanded. That felt wrong. “Please. We must pass.”
Gesria raised an eyebrow in amusement, sword pointed toward him. “We are under orders to arrest you. Surrender yourselves now.” She spoke with a hard edge, despite her expression.
Fenn raised his hands and took another step forward so the sword’s tip nearly touched his chest. He opened his mouth as if to speak.
“Fenn, don’t—” that was Mell. She knew his tricks.
Too late. Fenn grabbed the sword. “Clysnath” Sparks like lightning threaded up the metal into the Captain. She jolted for a moment and stepped back, smelling of cinders. He had no time to feel guilty. The guard on the left charged at him, sword upraised. Fenn lifted his left arm protectively by instinct.
The blade met flesh. It stung, burned, ached. He wanted to scream. Or perhaps he did. He couldn’t tell in the moment. He stumbled back, gripping his arm. Then everything was black.
How had it come to this? Him, a traitor to his people? Fighting to get to the Wildlands. There was a vague sense of movement around him. He could still feel the pain searing through his arm. Gods, he prayed again, help me get them there safely. I need to wake up.
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“Fenn?” that was Galendria’s voice.
He felt her hand on his shoulder. He shuddered. He wasn’t unconscious. He was merely standing, cradling his wounded arm, surrounded by blackness.
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EARLIER THAT DAY.
BELAER.
Belaer Silverstem had seen his share of scholars and miscreants attempt to swindle their way in before, but never in possession of a House Sigil. He inspected what his Everguard had handed him. The crystalline charm, dangling in its setting from a silver chain, contained a great, white willow in the center of the round gem. Willowbirth. The sigil of the most closed-minded individual in the nation, the Master of Tradition. Belaer could not imagine how this human had come by that alliance.
He gestured for her to enter the Meetinghouse. As Master of Trade, he had commissioned this building some centuries ago for entertaining trade partners and diplomats just outside of the border. This woman was neither of those. A guard dropped her trunk by a wall and saw himself out.
“Welcome honored guest,” he said as he walked her to cushioned seats placed strategically around a low table, “I hope the seasons blessed your travels.”
“Like a spring breeze.” The woman’s voice was thick and rich, and she answered without hesitation. She knows the elven greeting, then. As she followed him to the seats, a cloaked figure stepped out from behind her, every inch of it wrapped in linens, leather, or cowl. Belaer glanced at the guards, but they showed no sign of alarm at the second person. Most likely some kind of hired guide, then. No one of consequence.
Belaer sat at the head of the table and gestured to the couch. For an undistinguished guest, this was the right arrangement. He crossed one long leg over the other then leaned forward, his fingers pressed together pensively. She was of dark skin and raven hair, as only the humans ever were, with full, low cheeks. Her simple gray robes indicated that she was a cleric. An archaic profession, to be sure, but humans were very religious creatures. For her service, she wore a golden circlet, its emblem resting in the center of her forehead. This particular emblem seemed familiar: a swirl formed an eye amidst a triangle, the point facing down.
Was it the crest of a Faerie god? Belaer’s people gave little heed to the old gods. It seemed unlikely Olfeiros Willowbirth had sent for her. Yet, he was the Master of Tradition. As such, his house held many secrets. Some may concern the gods of old.
Belaer smoothed his glossy, brown hair behind his ears. “You’ve come a long way, so make yourself comfortable. I’ve sent word to the Willowbirth household, and we will await his arrival.”
“Thank you.” She met his gaze as she spoke, then glanced at her companion. An odd companion indeed. While the woman looked tense, her guide looked relaxed, almost as if this were her—or his—own home. Though, the twitch of a booted toe betrayed a hint of impatience. Perhaps he–or she– awaits payment.
Belaer watched as the cleric’s eyes meandered about the room. Someone like her, learned of elven ways, would recognize that this cabin was styled after human homesteads. Her eyes flitted between the two oaken doors, rode the pine rafters across the ceiling, traced the granite tiled floor, then landed on the table. It was a showpiece carved from a single Greatpine. Its legs were each unique; former branches preserved and shaped masterfully to serve their current purpose. Watching her admire it, he couldn’t help but feel pleased.
“I also have a letter,” Mellark said, her attention lifting from the delicately woven table-runner, “in my trunk. It explains everything. If I’d had half a mind this morning, I should’ve put it in my pack. I just,” she swept one of her multitude of tight braids out of her face, “I had forgotten that I’d used it as a temporary bookmark.”
Belaer thought he detected a blush across those dark cheeks. “No, there is no better explanation than the words of the one who issued the letter himself.” This was a very singular instance. He had never received a guest that he himself had not invited–he was the only Etnfrandian with contacts outside, or so he’d believed.
Then there was the matter of fraud. Last he’d checked, the four members of the Willowbrith House were still securely in possession of their family charms. The ladies wore them as necklaces. Often Olfeiros did as well. But then, young Fennorin had an odd habit of forgetting to wear his. That was not the same as losing it. Something clicked in Belaer’s mind.
“So, for what purpose did you come, Scholar-Savant Mellark?” he asked. The mention of her name and title seemed to instill in her some confidence.
“Well, it’s all in the letter, but in a word? For scholarship. Regarding the Faerie gods, primarily, Lord Silverstem,” she answered. “Or is there a better title I should call you by?”
He felt his mouth crease upward. Her dedication to elven etiquette was admirable. “The best Allspeach translation is ‘Master’ or perhaps ‘Chairman,’ but if Lord is easier to the tongue, I take no offense to it.”
“And what in Elvish?” Her eyes sparkled as she asked the question in his own tongue.
He couldn’t help but smile in full, breaking his act of polite stoicism. “Ceann,” he answered. “Ceann-Malairt to be specific.” He turned the conversation back to her. “Assandial University… that is in the region of the Black Lake, yes?”
“Yes, the Southeast side near Sandersonville. The University there houses the region’s largest library, so naturally my clergy to Lorthen would—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. This fit well with his working theory on her. “And you come bearing the crest of the Ceann of Tradition, Willowbirth?”
“The Ceann?” she blinked at him in confusion.
He kept his face placid, smooth as a windless sky, but he couldn’t help but be amused. This polite scholar hadn’t come to see the cold, austere Olfeiros, but his unconventional son. The lad had been lost for over a century to scholarship among men, and had only just returned this decade with a head full of knowledge deemed useless–or worse–by the House of Tradition. Histories and magics were by no means part of the aesthetic traditions. This mattered little to Belaer. That lad was intelligent and well-intentioned. Belaer had agreed to his daughter’s request for their betrothal with only a small argument, and that about Olfeiros, not the boy.
He prepared to clarify who she sought when a shuffling outside the Eastern, Etnfrandia-facing door caught his attention. He stood, his long robes falling to the floor. “Excuse me a moment.” He swept across the room and swung open the door.
What met him was quite a kerfuffle. The two Everguards outside were no longer at their posts beside the door. Instead, one seemed to be struggling to restrain someone. The other blocked the doorstep, and he turned with a ready solute.
“At ease, sirs. Who have you apprehended?”
The nearer guard answered. “The young Fennorin Willowbirth attempted to enter without the appropriate invitation. We await the arrival of the Ceann of Tradition to clarify the situation.”
“I apologize for the confusion, Ceann-Malairt,” the younger elfman wheezed from within the first guard’s hold, “but the guest in your Meetinghouse is mine, not my father’s.”
The guard shoved him back in an attempt to quiet him.
“Stop,” Belaer kept his voice firm and still, but his amusement only grew. He gestured for Fennorin to be released. “I believe the Myc-Ceann speaks the truth. Sanctioned or not, I will allow this meeting to proceed with my attendance. Be sure to send word to his father–immediately.”
The guard released him swiftly and both bowed. “Yes, Ceann-Malairt.”
Fenn bowed his respects as well and waited politely for Belaer to enter the building first. “Thank you, Ceann.” The youth squeaked.
He wasn’t a youth really, but if Belaer saw his daughter as a mere girl, then surely her betrothed was a youth. “Come, son, let’s see what this business is about.”
The scholar and her companion stood up as they entered. Belaer gestured behind him toward Fennorin. “Is this whom you seek?”