The city-states of Hethbarn were scattered in their efforts and refused to offer one another aid. Even the Wood Elves failed to join the fight, a fact that Etnfrandians resent to this day. To their North, the irreligious Brikhvarnni remained uninvolved, then only a fledgling civilization.
-Fennorin’s Guide to Elven History, First Ed. UE 2342
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KRIDARNN
Krid paced beneath a greatpine on the mountainside, tail swishing impatiently. He shut his second, opaque lids and breathed heavily, smelling for the presence of people. Sharp pine and floral scents invaded his snout. No people. No Fenn. He’d seen the holy woman pass by earlier that day, meaning Fenn would come tonight. He had dismantled his camp in anticipation.
He sighed and opened his eyes. He’d grown accustomed, over his travels, to seeing a lush green world. This area seemed especially so. Pine needles poked between his claws with each step. The earth here was soft in some places, and stoney in others. He’d done his best to stay on stone. The dirt caved under his weight, and the wind would not blow away his footprints as in the sand of his homeland.
The sand. Krid found himself longing for the heat and sun of Brikhvarnn: open skies, full of possibilities; bright sun to warm the soul; soft sands for gentler walking. None of this cold, damp nonsense. He reached up and wiped dew from his brow. His movements felt sluggish in the chill of night.
Not everyone felt the same as he did about his homeland. The drakeman chuckled to himself, remembering the first time he’d met Fenn, the lad passed out in the sand, red-faced as the desert rose, a victim of Brikhvarnni noontime. Doubtless, he would have died out there if Krid’s unit had not passed by. That bright hair of his had caught the sunlight, arousing Krid’s curiosity. A mere recruit at the time, he had seen but a handful of men, and even fewer highland elves.
He’d rescued Fenn, of course. Though, as a military scout, it had not been his duty to rescue a noncitizen traveler, it was his moral obligation to protect the weak. He could not have guessed that the spindly yucca of an elf would become his sworn brother. But Fenn had stood by him when Krid chose to remain in the military against his bloodclan’s better judgment.
Few had done the same. Only Fenn and Fridana. Fridana. My beautiful red-scaled bride. Krid dabbed at the dew under his eyes. He longed to return to her and their daughter. But Fenn requested his aid, and he would do all in his power to help him. He owed Fenn that much. For standing beside him when no one else would. For helping him to change his fate. Krid nodded to himself.
He looked up. The Wanderer was nearly halfway through his journey through the skies, now. Where could that newt be?
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FENNORIN
Fenn strode to the front of the Culture Center and pretended water did not still drip from his pants. Perhaps their path through the underground springs had been flawed, but it was too late now. He offered a nod to the guard and reached for the door. He only needed to cross the building and open the back door to the others.
“She’s quite keen to see you, you know,” the guard offered a knowing smile as Fenn passed.
Fenn blinked. He smiled back as if he knew what the guard meant. Confusion would only raise suspicion. He stepped in.
Moonlight cascaded down from the slanting crystal wall. Pillars hung with vines cast tangled shadows across the marble floors. In the center of the room next to the white petrified willow, lit by a shaft of silver light, stood Galendria. Next to her, the long, glittering strands of crystal leaves hanging from the tree became dull. Fair and graceful, she hummed a tune to herself, letting her long skirts trail as she swayed. Her hair was half up in a braid, and the rest draped down her back like a loose cape.
Fenn’s heart dropped to his stomach. Not her. Not here. Not the one person in the world he couldn’t stand to disappoint.
The door closed behind him with a thud. She turned and smiled a small, sweet smile.
“So, you did come here.” She slid across the room as graceful as a dancer. Her gaze alighted on him only briefly before searching past him. “And where is the scholar?”
Fenn’s face went pale. “The Scholar?”
“The dark-skinned clergy woman whom my father described. Is she not with you?”
“What do you mean?” Fenn pressed the panic out of his voice. “I’m sure you are aware that I can’t bring her here.”
Galendria laughed a melodious, sparkling laugh that twinkled with mischief. “And I can’t marry someone so far beneath my station,” she goaded.
It wasn’t a jab at his standing. Fenn had said those very words to her about himself only a few months ago when she and her father had first approached him about the match. He’d fought it, reasoning with her about his undeserving nature.
It was a strong argument, one he believed whole-heartedly. He was inartistic and bookish. Amongst the Etnfrandians, it didn’t get much worse. Many cultivators gained more reverence. They at least created beauty by growing life. Plus for him, the autonomy of bachelorhood better facilitated his study of illegal topics. Yet no matter how he had protested, she and both of their fathers had insisted on the match. To hear his own words turned upon him so lightly–he felt foolish.
“She’s back outside my cabin,” he insisted, “resting after her travels.”
“Yes, of course. At the cabin that contained neither of you and with the guard who insisted it contained you both.” Galendria rolled her eyes at his shocked expression. “She’s at the back door, right?” She swiveled in that direction.
Beauty’s sake. She must have come to the cabin soon after we left.
“Wait! Galendria! You…” he reached out a hand toward her, then let it fall as she turned back toward him. “You better not get involved in this.” Fenn dropped his gaze to the stone floor
“In what?” She looked ready to laugh again. “A little sneak peek for a curious scholar?”
“Well…” he struggled to find the words that would convince her to leave without revealing anything. “What about your honor?”
“My honor?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You would have a long way to fall if you were to get in trouble. There’s a lot to lose if your honor is stained.” He swallowed hard. It’s not a lie. “I’d hate to be responsible–”
“I’m pretty sure that I should be the one to decide what to do with my honor.” Her genuine indignation surprised him. “Besides, who is going to catch us?”
Fenn let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, hopefully no one, but—” his panic rose as Galendria strode toward the back door, “we aren’t here just to look around.” Fenn reached for a lie that would force her to leave. “Some of the items here, they’re magical, and we… well, we…”
“You want to study them?” She pinched her brow in thought. “But then…” Her eyes lit with wild excitement, “are you here to take them?”
Fenn gawked. She’d guessed that unreasonably quickly. And now, the Flower of Etnfrandia, beloved by all, known for her warmth, grace, and lovely singing, was excited by the idea of thievery.
“Just so we can identify them–to find out what they can do, and why.” He hated lying to her. He just couldn’t afford the risk of telling her. A journey into the Wildlands? She’d surely stop them before they’d even left the building. “We’ll return them in due course.”
She smiled over her shoulder as she headed for the back door. “Naturally. Though, I don’t see how you plan to hide them while you work.”
Fenn adjusted his glasses and went to follow her. “Hold on, it’s not just the scholar there. I also hired…. an expert.”
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GALENDRIA
“An expert?” Galendria paused, her hand on the door. “In what field?”
Fenn sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Syrdin’s a thief of some kind. Try not to be frightened of zhem.”
What’s a zhem? Galendria’s brow scrunched, but she would not back down now. She had finally learned some clue as to why Fenn had been distant these last years. Why he had resisted her approach. It had nothing to do with me all along. She’d been worried, especially after he’d entertained that human woman in his home.
She swung open the door, smiling. “Hello, you must be Syrdin and Mellark. I’m Galendria Silverstem.” A large woman in an oddly plain robe stood in the door’s light, a short, hooded person next to her. Eyes like a wolf’s glowed from under the cowl, and Galendria saw a flash of metal at his hip. She shrank back.
“Don’t!” The robed woman, Mellark, set her arm across Syrdin. “That’s Fenn’s betrothed.”
Mell removed her arm as Syrdin sheathed a dagger. The little–-well, Gale didn’t know what–brushed past her into the building. “I don’t remember her being a part of the plan.” The voice that came from under the hood was sharp and icy, as unforgiving as the North Wind. Galendria gawked. The rude stranger didn’t even remove his hood.
“Mellark, Scholar-Savant,” the human gave a warm, broad smile to accompany her polite bow. “Pleasure to meet you. Fenn speaks very highly of you.”
Galendria smiled and offered her hand as her father had taught her to do for humans. “Fyr-Ceann Gale, and the pleasure’s all mine.” Mellark shook it with large, soft hands. Galendria couldn’t help but notice that they were fair and pink on the inside, unlike the rest of her skin, dark as pine bark.
“Sorry about my companion, zhe is not good with strangers.”
She? Galendria forced her smile not to crack. I’d hate to know what she’s like with friends. “Consider it snow in springtime.” Galendria paused, realizing the saying may not translate. “Ah, that is, melted away.”
Mell grinned, a wide, genuine gesture when she wore it, with a glimmer of playfulness. “With all the warmth of the sunshine.”
She speaks Elvish! Gale felt the surprise show on her face, and that pleased the Scholar even more. Her father had mentioned that she’d demonstrated good, Elven manners. “O-of course.”
With that, Galendria waltzed back over to Fenn, the Scholar trailing behind her. “So how does the next part of the plan go? Anything in particular we are snatching?” She tried to seem chipper, but underneath she felt a mounting concern. The rudeness of the thief, and the oddity of having a human here, no matter how well-mannered… it was a bit much.
Fenn hesitated, still taken aback by her cheerfulness. Good. She would prove that she was the companion he wanted. He could trust her.
“Well, Syrdin is doing zheir job. We need to go to the display room and see if it’s trapped. Then we’ll check which artifacts are magical, and Syrdin can grab those for us.”
Galendria glanced around, realizing Syrdin had disappeared. That set her ill at ease. She shook herself. He mentioned magic items. “I think I can help with that.” She slid past him into the Display room, a large area adjacent to the White Willow for which the Willowbirth’s had been named. The tree was long dead and petrified, but the Culture Center had been built around it while it still lived, and the keepers of Tradition had been named for it.
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The other side of the building had a stone second story, but not this side. Instead, the slanting, crystalline roof swooped from several body lengths above her until it nearly reached the floor on the other side of the room. The area was lit by a silver lamp post akin to the ones outside as well as by the light leaking in through the ceiling.
The room had a smattering of exquisite vases, armor, weapons, jewelry, and other personal effects on display. Artifacts that encapsulated the magnificent Culture and artistic accomplishments of the Etnfrandian people.
Despite the pride they held in these items, the room smelled dusty. The artifacts may have been regularly cleaned, but they were not often visited except annually by school-age elflings.
Galendria strode to the center of it near a decorative set of armor. She gave one more reassuring smile to Fenn before she put her hands together and inhaled deeply. A thrill shivered down her spine. He had shared some of his secrets with her. It was time to do the same.
“Tayspaen doan Drayht” A warm glow bubbled within her. Suddenly, the room was lit with auras, like smells, wafting in the air. Magical auras. The spell allowed her to sense magic in the objects and people around her. There were, as Fenn had assumed there would be, several magical items around. And each of them gave off a slightly different “smell.”
Mellarks’s circlet gave off a smell like the mustiness of books, and a warm, benevolent glow. The woman was casting her own spell. Galendria turned and faced a necklace that smelled like a charm spell. She leaned forward to inspect it, then tilted her head to Fenn, who was gazing at her with his mouth half-open. “This is magical.”
“I won’t take it until Mell’s done.”
Galendria flinched. That Syrdin had appeared out of nowhere right next to her.
“That is just fine,” Galendria kept the bite out of her tone. Melted like snow… “I am merely pointing it out.”
She glanced at Fenn, who was too dumbfounded to interject. Then the glow from the Scholar’s circlet faded, an effect of spellcasting, not of Galendria’s temporary sense for magic.
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MELLARK
There was a trap somewhere in the room. Mell’s circlet dimmed as the spell ended. It linked an object within the building to a silent alarm–which object, she could not determine. “There’s nothing dangerous, just an alarm trap somewhere. Probably on whatever is most valuable,” Mell relayed to her companions.
“How odd.” Fenn’s brow furrowed. “My father shouldn’t have access to such enchantments.” He still followed Galendria, unusually quiet in his confused state.
With her part apparently complete, Mell let herself study the girl. There was something different about her. It wasn’t that she was extremely beautiful–for an elf–it was that her bearing was so elegant that she seemed more to float rather than walk. Good for you, Fenn. She would have been a catch if he wasn’t planning to run away into the Faeworld.
Galendria went about the room pointing to objects that emitted magical aura, her every movement fluid and refined, like liquid silver. Her spellcasting was obviously not a common talent amongst Etnfrandian Elves like it was among Wood Elves. Mell had known this country had abandoned the use of magic outside of art and architecture. If Fenn’s behavior was any indication, there were rules against it even within those genres.
Syrdin, whose prior search of the building had found no occupants, was placing the magic items in a large bag, where they disappeared without bulging the sides. Some weeks ago on their journey, Mell had ascertained that the bag was connected to an inter-realm storage space. She’d have to tell Fenn about it. That was the sort of magic item that excited him.
Into realm storage went a crystal in a carved wooden box, a fine metal grip for a walking staff, and a necklace of interwoven detail. Each item was flawlessly crafted and richly decorated in the style of the elves. Mell found herself reconsidering whether Fenn would find the bag interesting with those items around.
Fenn, finally remembering some words, spoke to Galendria. “Fyr-Ceann, your father oversees the Twin Gate Mellark and I walked through today.”
Mell grimaced. It wasn’t even a question.
“That’s right,” she nodded her head as she gazed around the room. “He is the only one who can approve visitors.”
“I don’t suppose you know how to operate the gate?” Fenn’s fingers fidgeted in front of him, then he rubbed his palms. Cute. Mell smiled to herself at his nerves. She wasn’t sure why he bothered asking her at all. Both she and Fenn could determine how to operate magic objects, she through a spell and he through study.
Galendria turned and pointed to some armored boots under a complete decorative set. “Just the boots from here.” She mused at Fenn’s question as she milled about. “Well, I know there’s a switch that operates it, but the operator must bear the Silverstem crest or it fails to function.”
Mell winced inside. So that’s why he asked. It used recognition magic. Of course. She hoped Fenn had a backup plan.
Galendria stared at Fenn, a question written on her face.
Fenn caved under the gentle pressure of it. “Erm, I was hoping I’d be able to let Mell out if I needed to.”
Galendria scrunched her brow in disbelief. “Fenn, the barrier only keeps people out, not in.”
“Ah, th-that’s true.” He flushed his unique shade of purple. “Nevermind then.”
Mell set her mind to work on this new puzzle: how to let that dragonfolk soldier into Etnfrandia so he could accompany them to the Faeworld. Fenn had specified the rift was inside the barrier. She didn’t get far in her thoughts.
“You already have a scholar and a thief. Who else were you going to let in?” Galendria had stopped and crossed her arms over her bosom.
Mell grinned at the wall. Clever she-elf.
Fenn cringed. The poor man just had no talent for lying. “I’m going on a journey into the Faeworld to find out just where we came from.”
Galendria flinched stiff. “The Faeworld? You mean–that’s another realm! It’s–you think it’s the Wildlands?”
Mell had heard Fenn call it the same term. Until now, she assumed it was the elven term for the realm. Now she reconsidered.
Fenn nodded, serious.
Gale breathed in, as though inhaling the idea, then turned and pointed to a longbow with silver plating and ornate golden accents. “That one is the last magic item. It’s got a bigger aura, too, so be careful.” She chewed her lip, then stared at Fenn without another word, waiting for him to say more.
In the silence, Syrdin snuck behind her and inspected the bow’s setting for a trap.
Fenn pressed his glasses into the bridge of his nose as though that would push the right words out of him. “The Fae is… not like here, so… I have one more friend I asked to come. He can offer us some protection.”
Gale stared at him, concern and hurt mingling in her eyes. “And now that you decide to be honest with me, you tell me you intend to go into harm's way. For the sake of what, exactly? A little history lesson?”
“The history and truth of our people, Gale. Everything we celebrate at our festivals, every text and every poem and song we perform, it all points to a greater knowledge, a greater beauty. It’s got to be there–where we came from.”
She scoffed. “Assuming elves really are Faerie.”
Mell suppressed her inner recoil at the girl’s ignorance. The Etnfrandian’s truly didn’t learn about their origins.
“We are.” Fenn stood tall, the scholarly bend to his back disappearing.
“And what if there isn’t anything to find?” Gale set her jaw. She seemed ready to detain him by force.
“There. Is.” Fenn didn’t move. His eyes burned from behind his glasses. “We are Faerie. There has to be.”
The she-elf crossed her arms. “You’re really so determined to go?”
Mell thought Fenn’s expression was answer enough, but he seemed to search for an explanation anyway. His brows were low and his hands clenched, but his gaze was unfocused, or rather focused within his mind. He opened his mouth to answer.
“Someone’s coming!” Syrdin hissed at them from the now-empty bow display.
“Quick! Hide!” Fenn commanded, “I’ll distract them. Go through the backdoor.”
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GALENDRIA
As the others dashed away, Galendria found herself pulled to Fenn’s side. He wrapped an arm under hers so they were linked. He gave her an earnest, almost pleading look and strode toward the entry hall to intercept the newcomer, taking her with him.
Fenn really intends to go to the Wildlands. She didn’t have time to ponder it.
An elflord stepped silently around the corner, his masses of folded robes cascading behind him. The moonlight that shone through the crystalline roof caught in his silver hair and cast deep shadows over his eyes, deep-set like his son’s.
“Ceann Willowbirth,” Galendria bowed, pulling Fenn down with her. “We did not expect you would be up so late.”
“And so you disturbed one of my relics?” the elflord glared down his nose at them.
“Only to have a peek, Athyr, nothing more,” Galendria lied. The Ceann remained unmoved. “Fenn pulled it out so I could have a closer look.”
“It’s my fault, Athyr,” Fenn added in her defense, “I know you wish for them never to be touched. I take the blame. I’m sorry it alerted you. I did not know you could place that kind of magic. It was my impression that you disapproved of it.”
Now is not the time to mix bitter herbs into your dough, Fenn. Galendria glued a pleasant smile on her face.
“I won’t pretend I am not pleased to see you out with Fyr-Ceann Galendria rather than some human woman,” the Ceann’s voice was as frosty as a winter storm, “but do not let Ceann Silverstem’s admission of your guest embolden you to bend the laws of Etnfrandia. They are not as flexible as the laws of men you’ve come to know so well. I will not protect you. If it comes to light that you have been smuggling anything in or out–artifacts, people, knowledge—I will be the first to call for your arrest, not the last.”
The elflord leaned forward. His pale complexion against the deep shadows of his face gave him a ghastly appearance. She shivered. How could he be so unfeeling toward his own son, accusing him so? But then, the accusations… they weren’t misplaced.
Fenn set his feet, his back straight. It was unlike him. “Father, you may believe that my time in the outside world has ruined me, but I will not stand to be accused of expropriating the culture of our people. I have as much interest as you in the conservation–”
“Do not feign loyalties to my culture, boy.” Olfeiros’ voice echoed across the cold, dark walls. “You abandoned your rights to it long ago, chasing faerie tales and magic long dead.”
Fenn’s head lowered beside her. Galendria cleared her throat. She had to do something. “Perhaps the Ceann would hear an explanation from me?” She spoke in that genteel timidity appropriate for addressing the Ceann.
The elder Willowbirth softened. “Yes, Flower, from you I will hear what business brings my son to the Center of Culture at such a late hour.”
Galendria took a breath. She’d never cared for Ceann Willowbirth anyway, and this was more than she could bear. She would stand with Fenn. “You see, when my father gave me news of Fennorin’s guest, I sought out an explanation. I sent to tell him I was coming to his cabin, but he requested that we meet here instead because his guest was resting after her travels.”
The lies spilled off her lips, her conviction guiding them. “When I got here, he explained that this, of all places, was the best for discussing the cultural importance for which he brought the woman. You see, she is a servant of one of the Fae gods, the gods interwoven in our art. For example, Fenn was just explaining to me the divine significance of the longbow before you arrived.”
“Oh?” Olfieros’ tone was unmoved by her tale. “And what, pray tell, was the divine significance of my grandfather’s heirloom?”
Heirloom. Galendria stammered, the lies now stuck on her tongue.
“The sun-god,” Fenn saved her from stumbling further, “the bow bears the crest of the Sun-God, Anruwan. And I believe it also bears an enchantment, Faerish magic.”
Galendria hoped he wasn’t inventing that, even if it sounded fantastical.
Olfieros stepped forward. He was not taller than Fenn, but in this moment he towered over him. He began speaking in a didactic tone. “‘Do not seek culture where the House of Tradition has not approved it. This is the law of the land. Do not create stories that do not come of old, and do not add to the words of our ancestors that which was not passed down.’ Do you know, my son, what I am quoting?”
Galendria’s eyes went wide, but her worry was misplaced. Fenn knew the answer. “The Book of Laws and Tradition, Chapter Ten, Section Seventeen, paragraph one. Also called the ‘Decree of Culture’.”
He’s knowingly breaking the law, she realized. This isn’t mere scholar’s curiosity.
The Ceann nodded. “Do you know who enforces the decree?”
“You, father, and the Tenth Commander’s Everguard, at your discretion.”
“Good. I believe your business here is concluded. See yourselves out.” The Ceann of Tradition strode past them without another sideways glance.
Galendria finally remembered how to breathe. Until she realized the direction that the Ceann was heading. Straight for the room with the robbed displays..
“How fast can you run?” Fenn whispered, pulling her toward the front door.
“Oh frosts,” was all the reply she managed before they burst out of the Culture Center and into the darkened streets of the city.