Scholar-Savant,
Your dissertation topic, “Lost Etnfrandian History,” has been approved. Your travel expenses to Etnfrandia will be reimbursed on news of successful entry. We acknowledge that your contract has promised you payment, but you must understand our position. No outsider has set foot inside that barrier in two thousand years.”
-Erudite Dirgewood in Letter to Mellark Brandybeard No. I
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MELLARK
Mell followed Fenn out of the Meetinghouse. As she stepped into a cool evening breeze, her breath caught in her throat. No artist in all of Hethbarn had ever come close to capturing the majesty of the Everglow mountains at sunset. Soft hues of orange and pink painted the mountains before her in a glorious light. The colors danced on the peaks, glittering off early-spring snowcaps. The two guards tailed close behind as she followed Fenn up the path of packed earth.
Some few miles away, the city, Ar-Etnfrandia, bustled in tiers like a Brikhvarnni castle. Three tiers: one for each level of society: cultivators, businessmen, and artists. Mell had spent most of her life dreaming of visiting this place to study its unique culture. No other society esteemed art above all other accomplishments. Her curiosity pulled at her like a riptide, carrying her away from the shores of Hethbarn toward the city’s great unknowns.
She, Fenn, and their guards proceeded in silence until they came to an archway made of two massive, twisting trees whose branches intertwined overhead. She could just see the shimmering magical barrier in the space between them. A Warding Wall, Syrdin had called it. Scholars long debated how high the barrier ran. She craned her neck, but could not discern whether, far above, the transparent barrier dissipated, or simply faded from view.
She gazed back at the magnificent trees. This was the Etnfrandian Twin Gate: an outsider’s single access point to the nation across which none had ventured since its founding. Well, no one that history verified. Folk legends claimed otherwise. They paused at the trees, and one of the guards passed through and stood at the side of a tree, operating the gate.
According to legend, the Etnfrandians could pass through freely, while other peoples were repelled. The theory was that it had to do with one’s magical alignment. Syrdin had been sent in secret along another path to attempt to enter as the Etnfrandians did. As a cleric of Lorthen, could I pass through? She reached out her hand. It tapped on an invisible surface, sending a quick zing up her arm. She pulled away, and stretched it out again, flat. Her hand rested as against a wall. Her fingers and palm tingled. She pushed. It pushed back. Pain bolted up her arm and she found herself forced back a step.
Amazing.
She looked to Fenn to share her wonder and noticed him squinting at the guard on the other side. Perhaps she also should have studied how he opened the gate, but she could determine that with a spell, if needed. A puff of luminous mist erupted from between the trees, falling gently to the ground. Mell let her hands trail through it as they stepped onward between the trees. It tickled her skin with energy. A giddy grin spilled across her face.
Beautiful.
Fenn spoke to her silent amazement, his voice a whisper. “This lost art, elven magic–it’s incredible, isn’t it? This gate, things like this are what inspire me to rediscover it. Understand it. We don’t know how to create things like this anymore.” Mell looked up to see his eyes set wistfully back at the trees as they trod on.
“That is a shame.” Mell set her smile on him now. “Especially with how important magical inventions are becoming across Hethbarn. But that’s all the more reason that I am glad I can help.”
The city seemed to sparkle and glint as they grew closer. Mell experimented with how she might describe the Etnfrandian gate, the city, and the sunset in her memoir. Perhaps she would even ask Fenn to draw them for her. She had no skill in art, but she’d seen Fenn’s sketches of artifacts, ruins, and magic items. They were quite life-like. She gazed at Ar-Etnfrandia one last time as they turned off the main road at the crest of a ridge, fighting its draw.
She turned to face the new view. “Oh. wow.” In the dusk created by the mountains lay Greenriver Valley. The scenery was indeed green. Forests, orchards, vineyards, and fields patched the landscape between the mountains until the curve of the slopes hid it from view.
“Oh, Fenn, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe you stayed away from here for so long. What was it? Ninety years? It’s amazing.” Mell looked to Fenn, but found him staring into nothing.
“A hundred and nineteen.” He seemed to almost choke on his reply. He offered an attempt at a smile. “It certainly has a strong aesthetic appeal, doesn’t it? And no lack of produce, either.”
Despite his smile, the heart had dropped from his tone. “Right.” How could I have been so thoughtless? Fenn had never spoken fondly of this place. She recalled one of the few stories he had told her of his childhood. His father had burned an original copy of an extremely rare and precious book, turning it to ashes. The book was so rare that Mell had not been permitted to lend it outside of the library. She had kept the library open and the fireplace burning all night just so Fenn could read that copy before it returned home to the archives of her clergy. Etnfrandia may be a place of beauty, culture, and art; a sojourning scholar’s dream destination. But it had made a poor home for Fenn’s curious mind.
By the time they arrived at Fenn’s cabin, it was too dark for Mell to see, though the sunset still glittered on the mountain’s peak. The guards didn’t light torches. They would never feel the need with their dark-seeing eyes. Fenn, more aware of human needs, lit a candle the moment they went inside his cabin. It illuminated hardwood floors, unfinished log walls, ornate rugs, a low table, a writing desk, and an iron stove of distinctly human crafting.
Mell smirked. “A man-made stove, huh?”
“I find I prefer the way humans roast their food.”
She snorted. “An elf with some sense.” She’d never cared for how Wood Elves steamed everything in juice. She assumed Etnfrandians did the same.
Fenn pursed his lips and took a seat. “Not if you ask any Etnfrandian.”
“They’re the fools, Fenn.” She meant it in more than just food preferences. He didn’t respond.
Mell didn’t sit. “So… sneaking out?”
“I’m afraid we have to wait a while longer for dark.”
Incredulous, Mell gawked at the deep dusk outside and laughed aloud, then shook her head. “Any darker and I may as well go swimming in the Black Lake.” That lake was so full of silt that you couldn’t see your fingertips if you stuck your hand into the water.
Fenn offered a sheepish half-smile. “Except then you’d need a bath after you were done. That won’t be true tonight. You’ll probably be getting one. Well, sort-of.”
Mell cocked her head. Sometimes his attempts at jokes didn’t quite land when you didn’t have all of the information he did. “What do you mean?
“Oh. The easiest way to get you into the city involves a bit of splashing about in a stream.”
Mell sighed. Of course it did. She peered out again at the dusk, dreading the falling darkness.
Then came a knock at the door.
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SYRDIN
It was really too light to be sneaking around by Elven standards, but Syrdin had to reach the peach orchards by the time of the Southern Wanderer’s rising. It was barely dusk and zhe could still see for miles. The Etnfrandian elves would see much shorter distances, maybe half. Zhe could count on that. Zhe crept around Southward over the ridge to the valley.
Zhe paused amongst an outcropping of trees and admired the view: lush, green, and brimming with fresh life. Certainly an extreme example of the beauty and verdure of the surface world. The Darkcaverns could never hope to compare. Plenty of beautiful species of moss and mushrooms lived there, but it was nothing to the vivacious orchards of the surface. Zhe breathed in the verdant air and let its vitality calm zhem.
From here zhe had two options: cross over a field of tall grass and pray that no prying eyes tracked zhem, or loop further down into the valley to hide amongst the vineyards and arrive at the orchards late. A guard tower in the city peeked over the mountain’s ridge. If zhe wasn’t careful, zhe could be spotted.
Zhe was always careful. Even better, zhe was prepared.
Zhe reached in zheir bag and retrieved a cloak made from Kapor wool. The woven fabric was dyed bright green. It was not meant for camouflage with surroundings, but with the Etnfrandians. The light-weight, warm fabric was their top export. With this, zhe would nearly appear that zhe belonged here.
Syrdin spied a path along the lower edge of the field and dodged between rocks and trees toward it. After listening to Fenn and Ceann Silverstem, zhe could pass as a native speaker of Etnfrandian Elvish if zhe needed, and no far-off guard would suspect a figure moving into Etnfrandia who could cross the so-called “barrier.”
If zhe could cross the barrier.
Zhe may have cursed Sabaed and even sworn fealty to another goddess, but zhe was still a Night Elf. Syrdin strutted with a confident dignity across the field. A bead of sweat trickled on zheir brow, well hidden by zheir new hood. Zhe did not know what would happen if a hell-touched elf came in contact with the Warding Wall. It could be painful, or even deadly. Whatever it was, zhe hoped it wouldn’t happen to zhem.
A prick of light gleamed from the city watchtower, armor caught in the last ray of sun. Zhe gritted zheir teeth. Show no hesitation. As zhe approached the treeline, an iridescent glow shimmered between the branches. Birds flitted from tree to tree across the barrier, singing songs to end the day. Buds dotted the branches and young leaves poked out between them.
Syrdin kept moving, jaw set. Zhe could feel the buzz of the magic before zhem. It met zheir skin, resisting. Zhe pressed on. It pushed against zhem. A foreign energy shot through zheir person, through the skin into every limb, every organ, into zheir very core. It seemed to search. Zhe stepped on.
Who are you? A man’s voice echoes in zheir head. To whom do you belong?
Zheir limbs tingled, fingers numb. Zhe didn’t respond. Zhe dared not reveal zhemself. A power surged within, pulling zhem foward. For a painful moment, zhe felt as if zhe would be torn in half from the soul outward. This one is mine. A woman, Ath-togail, was with zhem. The tension ceased. A bird sang. Syrdin gasped. Zhe was on the other side.
The whole event had taken but a moment. Zhe was alone again.
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Take that, Sabaed! A smile passed zheir lips unchecked and zhe continued zheir steady strides down the orchard path. The rest would be easy.
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MELLARK
Mell peered around Fenn’s shoulder to see a handsome young elf wearing a woven satchel at the door. He handed Fenn two rolled scrolls.
“Fyr-Ceann Silverstem and Ceann-Arthais Willowbirth each send word to you, Fennorin. The carriers have also arrived with a tent. Where would you like it set up?”
“Just at the edge of the clearing over there.” Fenn gestured in front of his cabin, then reached for the scrolls. “May the wind carry you swiftly, messenger. Thank you.” Fenn bobbed his head and the messenger bowed.
“A breeze’s bliss.”
Mell suppressed a smile. She was way too excited to hear the archaic greetings spoken in casual conversation. Even more exciting: if Ceann Silverstem had referred to his daughter had Fennorin’s betrothed, then Fyr-Ceann Silverstem would be none other than that same betrothed. It was a curiosity that Fenn had finally developed an interest in romance. Yet here was the evidence. She watched Fenn expectantly, waiting for him to open his letters. “A letter from your betrothed?”
“Seems so,” he said without sparing a glance for the scrolls. He crossed the room, striding toward a writing desk. Her steps creaked on the wood planks behind him as she followed, trying not to peek around him. Then he placed the letters on the desk and turned away.
Ouch. That’s a bit harsh. She knew he was on bad terms with his father, but this was his betrothed. He’d skirted the topic at the Meeting House. Well, they had time now.
“So, Fyr-Ceann Silverstem. Is she cute?” Mell offered him a mischievous smile.
Fenn lifted his hand from where it had been scratching at his temple. “Is who what?”
“Fyr-Ceann Silverstem, you just said she is your betrothed, right? I asked if she was cute.”
He shifted his weight and rubbed his narrow chin. “Hm, well most everyone seems to think so, though they would no doubt use the term ‘beautiful.’ We don’t really use cute except to describe kits and such. Mostly, everyone admires her accomplishments as a singer and performer, but that isn’t what you asked. Yes, she is my betrothed.”
It was as detached an answer as Mell had ever heard. She pressed forward with the ribbing. “But is she cute?”
Fenn sighed. “Mell, it’s something of an arranged…” he hesitated, and seemed to search his mind for a word, ”marriage. The situation is a bit tangled.”
Mell’s brows furrowed. Marriage wasn’t a word he would likely forget, especially not in his native Elvish. And he didn’t seem particularly pleased. “Is she an unpleasant person?”
Fenn’s eyes opened wide and he raised his hands in protest. “No, no, not at all. She’s perfectly lovely. Like I said, extremely skilled in music and song, and well-admired by our people.”
“Mm-hm, so you do like her.” Mell couldn’t help the little smile that crept out. “Yet, you don’t seem too happy about the betrothal.”
He sighed again, with no hint of his odd, purple blush on his cheeks. “Well, no. I wasn’t exactly looking to enter a partnership, or raise kids for that matter. My focus has been on my research and locating the Fae World. And my research is not exactly desirable to the Etnfrandians.”
“Well, they tend to have poor taste.” Mell regarded the stove in the corner. “Art isn’t everything to a culture any more than fruit juice is to food.” She watched Fenn nod slowly. Somehow, the betrothal must have been forced. Fenn never had shown romantic interest in any of his pursuers back at the University, and there had been a couple. Wait, did he mention kids? “Oh by Lorthen! Fenn, is she pregnant?!”
“What? No! Don’t be crass!” He cringed away from the mere thought of it.
Mell rolled her eyes. Her eldest had been conceived out of wedlock. Sure, she had plenty of regrets about it, and even more about the subsequent marriage. But it was not impossible.
Fenn pressed his lips together in thought, then perked up. “So, have you heard anything from your ex-husband lately? The girls should be completely grown and on their own by now, shouldn’t they?”
She squinted at Fenn. He was far too eager. “Yes. They’re grown, so Brandon hasn’t updated me in a while.” She pointed a finger at him. “But don’t change the subject. How did you get yourself roped up in an arranged marriage?”
Fenn took in a breath. He ran a hand backward through his hair. It stuck up in the air, off his forehead, and slowly began to lie flat. “Without going into a whole discourse on our marriage culture, this kind of partnership is initiated by the marton-to-be and affirmed by the fathers and patron. My father backed me into a corner. If I had not agreed to the arrangement, we wouldn’t have a cabin to stand in right now.”
This kind? Matron? Patron? No, Mell didn’t understand any of it. “What in Hethbarn does your father have to gain from this?” As soon as she asked, she realized the answer was obvious. Fenn’s father was a Ceann, as was the girl’s. It was a maneuver for influence. Because of the betrothal connection, Mell had been allowed inside Etnfrandia. The connection must extend to the fathers.
“Well, political alliance for one. To tie his—”
Mell cut him off. “Nevermind, it was a dumb question. The real one is if the Fyr-Ceann is actually a good person, why not tell her about your research? Explain yourself to her?”
Fenn studied the boots on his feet.
She could not decide if that was shyness or shame. “Oh? Too nervous that she’ll be disappointed?” She nudged him. “Fenn, do you actually like her?”
“It’s more like,” he wilted under Mell’s questions, “I’m afraid she would report me to the Council.”
“What? Report you?” What council?
“For pursuing illegal knowledge.” He shrunk into his shoulders, not daring to hold her gaze.
Mell’s jaw dropped. “Illegal?” she whispered it by instinct. “Fenn, this is important information! Is it your exploration of the Fae? You have already been there, right?”
“That’s right. Nobody from Etnfrandia knows about the Door, or my trips through it. Nor that I’m actually attempting to locate the gods, or at least the ruins of their temples. Not even that I have ongoing research of magical artifacts.”
She leaned in. It felt as though the very shadows dancing across the windows were listening, barely held at bay by Fenn’s flickering candle. This had been the reason he’d been nervous at the meetinghouse; why his letter had begged for absolute secrecy. She spoke low, “Fenn, What happens if we’re caught? A fine? Some jail time?”
“That would be the best case scenario.” He stared at his hands, clenched at his stomach.
Mell wished she could bore a hole into his mind and discover what he had been thinking. “Fenn. What. Are. The consequences?”
“For an Etnfrandian, I’d guess exile.”
“Not so bad for you, considering. What about for an outsider?”
“Depends on the crime you are caught for, really.” He looked through a window that faced further into the Greenriver Valley, focused as though he could see someone far away, traversing the woods. “And on the Outsider.”
“Fenn.” She pressed every bit of her impatience into her tone.
“For stealing an artifact, I’d guess a long imprisonment. Lifelong for a human, I’m sure. Not that that would be intentional. We just don’t have a precedent for anything like it.”
“Oh, well lovely.” Sarcasm leaked from Mell’s voice. “And for seeking out the Fae, and the gods, and such?”
“Well, attempting to propagate teachings on them as alive and available in the Faeworld may just get you executed, if it is ruled as dissemination of Forbidden Knowledge and Culture.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if that was not the precise fact he’d clearly been avoiding.
She closed her eyes and held in a groan. Though her clergy had sought the Fae for centuries, she had kept quiet. She was immensely glad she had.
He shifted again. “And then there’d be an execution for any Dark Elf, for any reason.”
Mell stiffened. She should have known he would figure it out. He had studied these things, even visited Brikhvarnn to interview the Night Elves there. But does Syrdin know the danger zhe is in?
“I’d understand if you wanted to back out.” Fenn was fiddling with his hands now, rubbing at the callous on the side of his left pointer finger, his writing hand.
Mell blinked. “Are you kidding me?” She grabbed him by both of his upper arms and shook him. “I’ve been dreaming of this opportunity for decades. A little advance warning would have been nice, but no one knows what we’re up to, and I’m not about to go preaching to the multitudes of Etnfrandia, so we should be just fine.”
Fenn nodded.
She let go of him. She had one more question burning on her mind. “But how did you find the passage? To the Faeworld.”
He took a seat at his desk. “Do you remember Professor Spacklebottom? The gnome who left his research to me?
Mell suppressed a snort. She remembered the old coot. In all his eccentricities, one had been an obsession with Faerie lore, from which Fenn had gleaned plentiful knowledge. Near Fenn’s age, he had passed away about five years before Fenn had returned to Etnfrandia.
“One of his notebooks contained witness accounts of Etnfrandia. In particular, a second-hand witness was a half-elf child of an Etnfrandian abdicator. She spoke of the “last door” between the Wildlands–erm Faeworld and Trueplane. In Etnfrandia.” Fenn went on to describe the many methods he’d employed to locate this “Door.” In the end, he had simply cracked it open–with magic.
As he meandered down a tangent, Mell took a moment to wonder at how the Door her clergy had been seeking for hundreds of years had simply been sitting “unlocked” in Etnfrandia. How did no one notice?
“There’s so much we don’t know, Mell.” Fenn’s excitement pulled her back to their conversation. “‘Can you really destroy a history without also destroying its people?’ My people are alive, so the history must be there for me to find. It’s there, Mell. I can feel it.”
Mell smiled sympathetically. He had quoted the late professor. She wasn’t sure that his words meant what Fenn believed they did, if they meant anything at all. But the Elves did originate in the Faeworld, as did their gods. “We’ll definitely find something there, Fenn. Here’s hoping it brings you some answers.”
Fenn nodded, then grew silent, staring at his hands as he rubbed them together. “About the betrothal, I wouldn’t worry about it. Once we disappear with those artifacts, I’m sure the Silverstems will cancel the contract.”
So that is how he has chosen to handle the poor girl’s feelings. Avoiding them. Part of Mell wanted to intervene, to make him tell her the truth. A girl deserved some honesty from her beau. But then she didn’t understand their culture, only that Fenn felt trapped. Perhaps it truly would have been worse to inform a Fyr-Ceann that her attention was unwanted.
Fenn glanced outside. “Speaking of, I suppose it has to be dark enough. We better get moving if we are going to get everything done before dawn, when my father will no doubt come demanding your removal. Probably mine, too.”
He stood and slid an ornate rug over from the center of the room to reveal a trapdoor. He lifted it up and gestured down into what was clearly a cellar. Peering inside, where there should have been barrels of fruits, vegetables, and grains, she saw instead shelves and chests. She clambered down into the dank room. With the trapdoor still open, she could just see his shelves were littered with notebooks, his own volumes upon reed-bound volumes labeled by chronology and subject matter.
Mell smiled. She was glad to know Fenn had created a sanctuary of scholarship in this place. On her left, a shelf stood empty. “No trunk of knick knacks?”
He slid down behind her. “I’ve moved them to my–to our camp on the other side.”
Of course. Mell’s skin prickled with excitement. The Faeworld. They would be there soon. He closed the trapdoor and she was plunged into absolute darkness.