In Etnfrandia, the government is organized into five Houses under the authority of the Ar-Athyr, which translated means Highfather, or King. Then, in ascending order of importance, the House of Cultivation oversees agricultural services, the House of Trade oversees business, the House of Learning oversees education, the House of Militant Arts oversees the armed forces, and the House of Tradition oversees the direction of Culture.
Despite the non-religious Culture of the nation, most of these can be equated to the various values of a Faerie god: Cultivation to Anruwan, Learning to Cyalmara (Lorthen), Militant Arts to Sabaed, Tradition to Dervalia, and the Highfather as the Highfather Boidhan himself. What remains is Trade, left to either Naude or, more likely, Skunyuv, a poorly understood goddess of metallurgy.
Fennorin Willowbirth
“An Etnfrandian’s Explanation of The Everglow Nation”
The Explorer’s Magazine
UE 2343
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BELAER
Two guards in ceremonial armor dragged Belaer by his bound wrists toward the center of the Court, an expansive room of stone that was to him all too familiar. The ceiling stretched high into the mountain with only a few windows at the rear. In front of him lay the waist-high booths where he had once sat: the six seats of the Ceann Council and their Ar-Athyr.
Rising on either side of his path to the very rear of the room were the seats of those whom he had once served. He saw their faces reflected in the polished armor of the guard who pulled him, morphed and bent into sneers. Between their faces, even his own had been deformed on the shining surface from smooth and refined to bulbous and grotesque. The people gawked at his every step, and their voices echoed in whispered rumors of his crimes. Conspirator. Traitor. Human-lover.
Among the people, a singular presence was lacking: his daughter.
He let his eyes fall to the smooth stone under his treading feet before he raised them to meet the gaze of the Highfather. She stood in her stone booth at the front of the room, her dark hair crowned with interwoven angles of silver that represented the proud mountains of their home. They gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight that filtered through the high windows across the back wall. After two days held in the deep of the mountain, the glare seemed especially harsh. He squinted against it to meet her eyes. Once warm with a kind familiarity, they now held the icy glint of one betrayed.
Vyrrel, my old friend, Belaer wanted to say to her, You know I did not mean harm. Please understand.
Five more stone booths slanted down beside hers: two on her left, three on her right. The one on the far left stood empty: his seat–or what had been. To her immediate right, Ceann Willowbirth glowered at him from the shadows of his own brow, a snakeline curl twisting his lip.
My humiliation would please him. Belaer had on more than one occasion opposed his grasps for greater influence, particularly Olfeiros’ demands for a comprehensive reconciliation of all content, old and new, to his House’s current Traditions–as if the submission of all proposed programs for review was not enough. It was an overreach, and in the end, the Ar-Athyr had always sided with Belaer.
Belaer was pushed to the center of the court. Shaped like an amphitheater, the room’s seating of the common elf behind him descended to an open floor marked off by two interlocked heptagons, a design which’s meaning he had believed was lost. Now, as he stood in its center, his mind fuzzed and his mouth felt eager to speak.
Surely it’s not magical.
Yet, when he glanced down, he thought he could see a faint glow rising from the engravings. He had never noticed this from his booth. Has it always been like this?
The Highfather cleared her throat, and the whispered gossip among the semi-circle of common brethren behind him quieted. He awaited her opening statement, their eyes locked. Her hair was pushed back from her face to display the sharp, red stripes of the Ar-Athyr across her cheeks, highlighting the harshness of her features. He had known her to be a kind she-elf, but this was not a court of kindness.
“Belaer Silverstem, Ceann of Trade,” her voice rang out, steely against the stone, “you stand before the Council accused of Crimes against Etnfrandia. The foremost crimes, to which you have admitted guilt, are colluding with outsiders and endangering the citizens of Etnfrandia. Today, you will stand before the Court, and the People shall witness both our accusations and your testimony. Do you recognize this session as fair and legitimate?”
Thoughts swirled to present themselves to him. He knew those crimes were technically correct. Yet, these accusations felt wrong. Collusion. He did not recall admitting to that. He pushed through the fog, answering tradition with tradition. “I humbly subject myself to the will of the Athyr and her children, the People.” The truth would come out. Yet, hopefully, the right truths: the truths that would protect Gale.
“Olfeiros Willowbirth, Ceann of Tradition, and Urivalur Cleartide, Ceann of Militant Arts, will summarize the testimonies of themselves and the children they represent. Ceann Willowbirth?”
Olfeiros stepped forward from his seat, his pale skin especially stark against the deep stone and evening shadows. He stood at the front of his booth as the others sat.
“Though many of you, my brothers and sisters, have come to testify that our dear friend, Belaer…”
It was a subtle slight to refuse Ceann Silverstem his title before it had been formally stripped. Belaer bowed his head. So that is how it is going to be.
“...is an elf of outstanding character and loyalty. I am afraid, brethren, that my own testimony does not match this narrative. I bear witness that, without consulting the Ceann Council, Silverstem allowed a human outsider to enter the barrier of Etnfrandia, as well as two other unidentified creatures, thereby risking the safety of our nation. This human was none other than a cleric of Divine Magics long declared against Tradition by my predecessors and myself. Whether an act of collusion, or a mere act of negligence, only Belaer himself knows, but here are the facts.”
Belaer gritted his teeth. It had occurred to him, on first meeting, that because of the scholar’s divine fealty, she was unlikely to be a connection of Olfeiros’, but it had never occurred to him that Fenn would invite her to seek forbidden knowledge. Is it possible?
Willowbirth gazed about the room, his eyes ever tilted downward with a forced regality. “On the very night our failed Ceann of Trade allowed the human in, she and another creature were present inside the walls of our grand city. And that night, five artifacts of Cultural importance were stolen from my Center of Culture. We have every reason to believe they are the culprits.”
Olfeiros took a deep breath and leaned his spindly, bone-white hands against the wall of his stone booth. This moment allowed a murmur to ripple across the crowd.
“It begins with the boy, Fennorin, who I have long been ashamed to call my son. Ever have I wrestled to appropriately direct his lack of talent and distance him from our City. For, as we all know, he has long since abandoned the ways of Etnfrandia.”
Belaer clenched his fists. That is unfair. It was much worse than the lad deserved, even if he had stolen artifacts. True, he was no ordinary Etnfrandian, and never had been. But neither was he an elf to be disowned and disregarded. He was intelligent and kind, even if not always forthcoming with his intentions–apparently.
“No trust should have been granted to this lad, especially not when he requested entry for a human. Yet, whether he was motivated by the betrothal within his family or by collusion with the criminals has yet to be determined. This is not all, my good brethren.” Olfeiros rambled on in his most mellifluous timbre, spinning his tall tale in silken honey. He interwoven such details as the woman’s affinity for magic, Fenn and Gale’s presence in his Cultural Center, and the artifacts’ “ancient symbolism of the once-devine,” threading a tapestry from which not even Belaer could deny that the intentions of the group were clearly religious and magical in nature.
“Our nation is betrayed, our Culture threatened, and it has been allowed by this elf.” Willowbirth pointed to him, his crystalline eyes glittering with malice. “Belaer Silverstem, do you admit to knowing that the human was employed in a religious order?”
Belaer blinked against the words that rushed to his mind. “Yes, I recognized her robes as clerical.”
“And what order of religions did you believe her to serve?”
Belaer clenched his teeth. He had told the Everguard, during his detainment and questioning, that she might have had a circlet to a Faerie god. He chose his words carefully, still pressed from within to speak the truth. “The symbols of her Order seemed familiar, vaguely. I wondered if it might be F–of the Wildlands.”
A gasp rose from the crowd.
“And you allowed her entry into our country?”
“Yes.” Belaer let his head hang repentantly.
“And why, Belaer, did you not find it necessary to consult the Council that you now stand before? And not inform us immediately of her presence at our border?”
“She arrived unarmed carrying the sigil to your house. She spoke politely and warmly, and she had more extensive knowledge of our customs than many diplomats from among the nations. In short, she seemed harmless. Not to mention I did not permit her entry to the city, and I sent word to you immediately, upon the moment she produced the sigil, and the others shortly thereafter.”
“Then why was I not informed of her presence until after the theft?”
With effort, Belaer kept his bearing calm. It would serve no one to let his irritation show. “Upon granting her permission to our countryside, I sent two guards with a message to you and the Council concerning her entry and whereabouts. Ceann Urivalur’s guard can bear witness to that.”
Urivalur glanced to a guard, who nodded his confirmation. No one else seemed to notice, except perhaps the Highfather. Olfieros was trying to heighten his crimes.
“And you did not think that a visitor across our borders should be discussed in person first? That you should have gathered us to consider the matter? Or at least have fetched the message yourself? That her religion and nationality, not to mention species, might be a major consideration to whether she should be allowed to so much as have an audience with you?”
“She arrived bearing your family crest, Olfeiros, and I could not deny an audience to one bearing a Ceann’s crest. By the time I understood her connection was to Fennorin, I had judged her to be harmless.”
“And you judged wrong. No outsider is harmless, and that is especially true of Fennorin, who has become like an outsider to us. Brothers and sisters, see for yourself the irresponsible negligence of Belaer Silverstem. He has ever been too friendly with the outside world, initiating trade that we did not need and relations we did not welcome. Now, his fondness has gone too far, and he seeks to allow other ideas into our nation, foreign and dangerous. Soon, Ceann Cleartide will testify that not only the human, but also two others were seen inside the Barrier. Belaer is nothing if not a traitor to us, and even more so his daughter, who took part directly in the theft.”
A shadow passed over the sun, darkening the room.
My daughter? A traitor? Belaer ground his teeth. How dare he.
“That’s enough, Ceann Willowbirth,” Vyrrel stated from her throne. “If you have no more facts to share with the Court, we will move onward.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Olfeiros leaned back from the edge of his booth. “I am finished.”
“Belaer Silverstem, do you find this testimony accurate in its facts and details, to the extent of your knowledge?” Vyrrel asked.
Anger pounded in Belaer, hammering at the peaceful expression he always strove to maintain. He could not deny any of it, not even that he hoped to introduce outside ideas into their nation. Every year, the people of Hethbarn advanced as they discovered more uses for the magic and technology they explored. Meanwhile, his people had not changed in the half-millennia that had passed since his own coming-of-age ceremony. But this has nothing to do with that.
If he explained that, it would only put more blame on Galendria. If he did not allow them to convict him of collusion, they would instead accuse her.
The fuzz in his brain urged him to speak his agreement. “Yes, the facts are true.” An unfamiliar growl found its way into his voice. “However, the presentation is skewed. In no way could Galendria be considered a traitor to our people.”
Olfeiros raised one of his bright eyebrows. “Then would you claim her guilt as your own? Has she not broken the law, to your knowledge, except at your direction?”
Belaer’s thoughts swirled like mist and his vision blurred. He wanted to claim her guilt, to take it from her. She had too long a life ahead of her to become a criminal. She loved this country too much. But he couldn’t. He could see his daughter humming, a vase forming in her hands, and heard his own voice reprimand her. He knew she kept practicing that magic.
“She has before broken the law against my will.” Did I just say that? The words had escaped him like a held breath. “But not in any way related to this,” he added quickly.
A hissing of whispers waved through the room as her crumbling image of the perfect Etnfrandian collapsed. What laws?–they must have wondered. What has she hidden from us?
“Then what of you? Did you allow the other two creatures to cross the Barrier?” Willowbirth asked.
“No.” Belaer glared up.
More whispering.
“The gate requires the Silverstem sigil. And your daughter, whom you know to be capable of breaking the law, was the only other person bearing the sigil that night, correct?”
Belaer hung his head. “Yes.” He had realized this the moment he had heard of the other two outsiders. He would have claimed someone must have stolen her sigil, but she was more capable than that. And then there were the circumstances…
“And you did not give her permission to open the gate?”
He felt he would choke on the words. He struggled to bite back the truth, but it pushed itself from him. “No.” Burning tears began to form behind his eyes. “If she opened the gate, she opened it on her own.” The pressure of the fog abated, allowing his mind to wonder yet again why she had done this. She was too strong-willed to have been pressured into it. Whatever she had done, it had been of her own free will.
He looked up to see Olfeiros’ brows cocked up in genuine surprise. He expected me to be guilty. The expression lasted but a heartbeat. “That concludes my testimony. Now we will hear of the account on behalf of the Everguard from Ceann Urivalur Cleartide.”
Olfeiros sat down, allowing the sun-kissed Ceann of Militant Arts stand. Belaer barely listened as she recounted events of a chase, of Gale, Fenn, the Scholar Mellark, and two others escaping into the forest. He had practically condemned his daughter, and nothing could be more woeful than that. He spoke when prompted to affirm that the description of the smaller creature matched the identity of the elven guide he’d seen with the Scholar-Savant. There was a small stir at the revelation that this was an elf, but Belaer hardly paid it mind. His own daughter, unbeknownst to them, was a Wood Elf adopted into their lands. An elf was no more dangerous than another stranger.
Other than that, he had no need to speak. Urivalur did not play the same games as Willowbirth. Rather, she was an elf who sought justice with a swift, straightforward conclusion.
Unlike Willowbirth, she would not spin words. Unlike Willowbirth, she would not flex the letter of the law until it was bent into the shape of a weapon. Willowbirth. The very name made him seeth.
“We will now,” Athyr Vyrrel announced, “hear the conclusions and recommendations of the Ceann Court before I make my pronouncement.”
With Belaer’s own chair empty, the first to stand was Ceann Urivalar on the Highfather’s left. “Based on the testimonies of my guard, of the Ceanns’, and the words of Ceann Willowbirth, I conclude that though Ceann Belaer Silverstem may not be guilty of collusion himself, pending further investigation, he is guilty of risking the safety of his brethren, and should be removed from his Ceannship and placed outside of all positions of influence he once enjoyed.”
A just ruling, one not unexpected from Urivalar. It dealt with the immediate danger without imprisoning one who may not have intended harm.
The Ceann of Cultivation was next, a shorter elfman with wavy hair. “I believe we lack significant information that could only be provided by questioning the individuals involved in the crime. Ceann Silverstem is currently a hazard, and I am uncomfortable with the idea of him in the City, the Court, or alongside our other citizens. Therefore, my recommendation is to have him stripped of his title, remove his access to those of influence, and imprison him until the full truth is revealed.”
It was a harsh and cautious recommendation. Something about this clearly evoked fear in the elf. Or perhaps someone else has… Belaer glanced at Willowbirth, measuring his expression. It was grave and revealed nothing.
The Ceann of Learning stood, hair falling loose about his waist. “I would convict him of negligence, but not collusion. I do believe that Ceann Silverstem has much to offer society, even if he has shown severe failings as the Master of Trade. I recommend he should not be ostracized, but rather redirected in his talents. He is, after all, a skilled orator and poet, as well as a patient and nurturing teacher. In this matter, I find it likely that his blind love for his daughter and her chosen patron-to-be likely precipitated his mistakes. That fatherly spirit could be a benefit elsewhere. I suggest he be relegated to a teaching position in a small town.” The gentle elfman gave a soft nod to Belaer as he sat back down.
Even this attempt to soften Belaer’s sentence held an insult. Blind love. He could see as plain as the faces of the Court around him that Gale and Fenn were not threats to anyone’s safety. If they intended harm, Urivular’s testimony would have included details of grave wounds, not the slight injuries she described. Most were more insults than injuries.
Belaer kept his expression guarded as he nodded his appreciation ever so slightly. Ceann Moonbreeze had always teased that he wished Belaer had become an instructor in his ranks rather than involved in business and politics. His motives were not pure, his judgment insulting, but Belaer should still show appreciation for the gesture.
Finally, beside the Ar-Athyr, Olfeiros stood. “My brothers and sisters, I do not believe we should entrust this elf with our safety, our business, our friendship, nor the minds of our youth. If, as we hope, the man is blinded by his love for his unruly daughter, then he is blind indeed, and not a trustworthy leader, teacher, or friend. To appreciate beauty, one must be able to see. His daughter has betrayed him; she has betrayed all of us, alongside Fennorin. And he would have us what? Forgive them? No.
“Many of you will not wish to believe it, but it is the conclusion of the facts presented today: Belaer is guilty of negligence, collusion, and likely worse. The Silverstems have been hiding something, and we can no longer trust them, father or daughter. My recommendation is to have Belaer imprisoned, his home searched, and his daughter arrested and imprisoned if again she ever shows her face.”
Belaer could hear the room hold its breath. A rage burned within him. His own sentence, whatever it may be, he could face. But to declare her a criminal without her having her own trial was simply outrageous.
Athyr Vyrrel stood, prompting Willowbirth to lift his magnanimous robes and take his seat. All eyes were trained on her, collective breath still withheld.
“Before I announce my conclusion, I will offer the accused one more chance to defend himself.” She looked to Belaer, a light in her eyes pleading with him to give her a reason not to imprison him. “Have you any last plea, my son?”
“I would, Athyr, take my words to defend not my honor but my daughter’s.”
The Highfather’s shoulders fell, but she did not silence him.
“If I have been fooled by blind love for Galendria, so have we all. And if we are fooled by blind love, yet so also is she, for she is very taken with the lad Fennorin Willowbirth.”
Another ripple of surprised murmurs came up from the crowd, and a sneer from Ceann Willowbirth. Belaer closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had raised a sword, and where they now expected him to cut down Fenn, he would instead fall on it. It was time someone stood by the correct Willowbirth.
“Yet I do not believe the boy to be ill-intentioned.” The truth of the statement let it slide easily from him.
Ceann Willowbirth’s attention snapped to him, his jaw hardening.
“It is no secret the lad’s relationship with his father has been strained, even from boyhood. If anything, he is curious and seeks only to know some of that knowledge his father, and Olfeiros’ ancestors before that, have deemed ‘dangerous’ and ‘un-traditional.’ As misplaced as this curiosity may be, the lad has been driven to extremes by it before. After all, he did depart our nation and seek an education outside our borders. It seems reasonable to conclude that he has taken the artifacts and disappeared in order, not to overthrow or cause harm, but rather to discover things kept secret by our honored House of Tradition. Why would a lad normally quite timid and mild act in such a way if not highly motivated? And what motivation for a scholar other than knowledge withheld?”
Ceann Willowbirth rose from his seat, expression guarded, but eyes glittering. Belaer stared him down. Yes, if you will make me a deluded old bear with a too-big heart, so will I be. Better than a spinner of half-truths. “If my daughter has followed him into so-called betrayal, it is only for her fancy for Fenn, a lad who hates secrets. A sentiment I can hardly discredit him for.”
Color, for once, spread across Willowbirth’s face. “So, you do know what the boy is seeking? And have withheld it?” Accusation burned in his voice like a sheer cold that left the skin withered and purple.
The fog swirled again, prompting him to answer truthfully. “I do not. I speak only in hypotheticals based on his character and past behavior.” It makes sense, though, doesn’t it?
“So,” the snake-like curl found its way back into his proud expression, “You would twist a narrative that writes me as some Ceann of Secrets? You would defame my age-old position when you could not uphold yours? Mine was created for the protection of the people, for their guidance and best interests. If Fenn seeks what we have declared un-traditional, he seeks the harm of the nation, whether he means to or not. But you,” Olfeiros slammed his fist into the half-wall in front of him. “You would, as you lose your own position, reach into mine? You reveal your true nature.” He spoke loudly, but clearly, despite his feigned loss of temper. “You may be green and peaceful on the outside, but the inside is sticky and poisonous, you fly-trap!”
All at once, the room was in an uproar. An elf clamored to her neighbor about the disorderliness of it. Others wondered at it in anxious tones. A poetically-minded elf began spouting verse. Scandal, he called it.
“You speak of yourself, you death-eating fungus!” Belaer withered at the sound of his wife’s voice piercing above the noise. She was not an outspoken she-elf, so the outburst only testified of how irate she must be.
The loud, clear clang of metal on stone disrupted the throng, and everyone turned their attention to the Ar-Athyr, who stood with her ceremonial dagger flat-side-down on the edge of her booth. “Enough! I should think of my children as better behaved than this.”
The reprimand was enough to replace everyone in their seats with the sound of rustling fabric.
“It is time I announced my sentence.” She gave a pitying look to Belaer, shadowed with disappointment. “Based on the recommendations of my Court and the Testimony of the Accused, I have come to a compromise.”
Belaer felt his heart pounding in his chest. What have I done to myself?
“Belaer Silverstem shall be placed under house arrest outside the city. He will not be allowed to enter Ar-Etnfrandia, nor host classes, meetings, or other activities with multiple persons without supervision from both the Houses of Tradition and Militant Arts. Furthermore, if he should be seen in the city, or should attempt to leave Etnfrandia, he shall be put in prison. His home, his documents, and his acts up to now as Ceann shall be put under investigation, and he will never again be allowed to act with any authority, either as Ceann or in any other capacity, for the rest of his days.”
Belaer hung his head. It wasn’t a stone cell under the mountain, but it still hurt. He had enjoyed his days as Ceann, cultivating new relations with the outside world, as well as nourishing their nation’s markets. Will a new Ceann continue to foster knowledge of the rest of Hethbarn, or of Allspeach? He would have no influence over that. Yet, with that personal loss, he could not help but think of Gale. Will she be safe to return? He turned his attention back to the Highfather.
“And,” she had not quite finished, “due to the unique situation we are in, I will add an anecdote that is not a part of the result of this trial.”
She gazed about the room, chin raised with authority. “If the young lady Galendria does return, her trial will be treated as its own unique case, and any evidence presented here will need to be represented again. For now, the prior warrant for her arrest to be held for questioning stands.”
Finally, she met Belaer’s eyes, the edge fading as they took on their old, familiar softness. “And, Belaer, I do hope you enjoy retirement.”
She looked up and beckoned for her Ceanns to rise. “The Court is now dismissed,” she announced. The Highfather and Council nodded their heads to the people, and the people bowed, Belaer with them.
Then he found himself dragged from the Court, hands still bound, as the sun plunged under the horizon, casting darkness over his homeland. He was no longer a Ceann, a teacher, an artist, or even a full citizen of Etnfrandia. He was a criminal met with harsh stares from people once warm and familiar to him.
In the chill of dusk, he could hear his wife sob.
And he hoped–for that was all he could do– that Galendria, wherever she had run, was safe. And that, when she did return, she would return with a stellar explanation and a ready plan for escape.