Yelora

A clatter from inside the carriage, and a cry. The boy’s parents lunged for the door, but the Dark Elf swooped in, blocking their path. Yelora held her ground from her perch on the carriage bench, staff brandished, a forced smile pulling at the edges of her mouth. This is how Queen Fara had maintained power. With a show of strength.

“Our son!” the woman shouted, the words garbled with emotion. “He’s inside with whatever’s in there. Please!”

Yelora’s smile wavered. He was just a boy. Probably not more than eleven rotations in age as the Imperials tracked it. It was not his fault his parents had taught him to be a thief and a good-for-nothing.

But he’d stumbled onto something bigger than himself, and now he had to die. The peace between the peoples of Terris was precarious, and if the Elven Queendom were perceived as weak, it might even fall.

The Elven Queendom was weak, but the Imperials must not know that. Nor the Elementals. None of this was an eleven-year-old boy’s fault, yet he would fall victim to it. That was how the tapestry of life unraveled.

A gurgling cry from the carriage. The child’s parents cried out, but Ronith’s blade would not let them pass.

My queen, Sochee signed, her face pleading. You don’t have to do this.

Yelora lifted a hand. It is too late.

You could make him forget.

Yelora hesitated. The Imperials needed to be taught a lesson, but Sochee was right—with material magic, they could wipe the boy’s memory, and then it would be safe to let him go. His feet would not touch the ground with the knowledge of what they carried. The Elementals would not discover it. He wouldn’t have to die.

The decision swam in Yelora’s chest. She needed to be a strong queen, but she also needed her best friend not to think her a monster. Taking one last look at Sochee’s stricken face, Yelora parted the green curtains behind her and leapt into the carriage compartment. She grabbed the Imperial child by his skinny arm and yanked him away from the small pale hand gripping him through the cage bars, its fingers curved, nails brown with dried blood and sharp as wolf claws.

“Look at me,” she hissed in Elvish, the Riverstone in her crown reflecting white on his terrified face. Her hand formed the accompanying token. “Look at me and forget.”

His eyes blinked languidly, and the fear drained from his face. It was done. But she’d turned her back on the creature in the cage—a mistake. A hand seized her hair, pulling her toward it with surprising strength as the boy twisted out of her grip and fled the carriage. Her cheek struck metal bars. The smell of dark earth thick with decomposition filled her nostrils. Stagnant water. Hunger.

Yelora reached for the blade at her thigh. She could easily introduce this horrible thing to the Alchemist with one fewer of its hands.

“Yelora, no!” Ronith was in the carriage now, amber eyes burning in the dim light. Realizing her transgression, the Dark Elf’s lips twitched. “Forgive me, my queen.” She offered the excuse they both knew was the reason for it: “You’ve only worn the crown a short time.”

Watching Ronith apologize was comical, almost. Yelora seized the hand in her hair, bending the wrist backwards until its owner howled. A show of strength.

“You were to take charge of it.” Yelora forced calm into her tone as she fought her own revulsion.

“I shall! Don’t harm it, m’lady.” The Dark Elf’s nostrils flared. “Please.”

Yelora waited a full breath before speaking. She had learned that technique from Queen Fara as well. “See that you do.” She released the hand, and it snaked back into the darkness with a mewl.

Outside the carriage, Sochee had her back to them, bow brandished. More Imperial nomads had appeared, an entire encampment of them, lighting up the road with their torches and the dull glint of metal.

“They have something inside their carriage!” the fortune-teller woman cried, holding her weeping son to her. “Something dangerous.”

“Go back to your party,” Ronith ordered. “This is the Elf Queendom’s business.”

“Well, we’re making it our business.” An oversized bearded ruffian with a battle axe stepped forward.

“Please, just leave. The Elf Queen does not wish to harm all of you!” Sochee’s voice was shrill.

A wizened woman in long skirts spoke up. “I don’t see the Elf Queen here. Where is Fara?”

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Yelora cursed under her breath. They had not planned to announce her ascension yet. Now that the secret was out, however, she might as well claim it.

“I am the new Queen of the Elves. My name is Yelora.” Yelora held her head high. “And I wish you no ill will, but I will not permit Imperials to impede our mission.”

“What mission is that?” the old woman asked.

Yelora wanted to snap at her for her impudence, but that was not something Queen Fara would have done. “We seek an audience with the Alchemist.”

“They have a monster in that carriage!” the fortune-teller cried. “Look at my son.” Yelora had not noticed the five angry gashes across the boy’s face in the unmistakable shape of a hand.

“It is an exotic animal from the southern isles—a gift for the Alchemist.” The mis-speak came a little too easily to Yelora’s tongue.

The Imperials exchanged looks. Their gazes questioned if this was a night to pit metal against the magic of the Elves. And over an animal, no less.

Go home, Yelora begged them in her mind. Turn around, and go home.

A horrible giggle ensued from the carriage, and Yelora’s heart stumbled. The thing inside had done it just to spite her—she was sure of it. The Imperials’ faces took on looks of terrified wonder. Now they would never step back. And there were too many of them. They would overwhelm the Elves’ small party, and as soon as they saw the creature, all would be lost.

Yelora could not let that happen.

“That is no animal.” The old woman’s face was lit by the moonlight, every crease bitter and shadowed. “What evil business are you about? Where is your queen? Have you killed her? Stolen her staff? As her allies, we will defend her.”

That was touching, actually, but Fara was not here to bask in the old biddy’s loyalty. Yelora caught movement in the silver-gilded pines. The Imperials had circled their carriage, hemming them in.

“I shall warn you one final time.” Yelora tightened her voice. “Take your people and retreat.”

They did not move. Moonlit violence sparkled in their eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest. A show of strength. There was no other option.

“Ronith,” she said, and signaled with a twist of her wrist. The knife flew from Ronith’s hand, embedding itself in the throat of the burly man. Sochee’s bow loosed an arrow in its wake. A moment later the Imperials were upon them, a roaring hoard with brutish weapons. Yelora called upon the Riverstone in her crown, whispering the words the Elf Mage had taught her. The time lapse slowed everything around their small party, allowing Ronith and Sochee to pick off their attackers one by one. An axe hurled itself her way, flipping lazily head over handle. Yelora moved her head to the side just before it broke through the wall of the spell, embedding itself in the carriage’s painted wood.

But the Riverstone’s power was fluctuating. She could feel its dying pulses against her forehead. With each one, her time-hold faltered.

“Ach!” Sochee cried, as the woman closest to her pushed through and grabbed her, knife in hand. But then it was the woman’s turn to cry out as a swarm of wood-and-metal wasps attacked her face—more of Sochee’s toys.

They were calling too much attention to themselves with this noisy scuffle. The Imperials had a war camp near here. Yelora had seen it on the map. Even though the people of Terris were at peace, the Imperials were always itching for a fight.

“We need to leave before the dragoons arrive!” she cried to her companions.

She wasn’t sure Ronith had heard her. The Dark Elf whirled among their slow-motion attackers with a smile on her face, knives sinking into flesh and pulling out again like partners in an effortless, chilling dance.

Meanwhile, Sochee’s bow found its own targets, her arrows flying as steady and straight as ships on a South Star bearing.

Yelora joined them in battle with her dagger and staff. She dared not use the Riverstone any more than she had to. It, like everything else in the Elf Queendom, was holding on by a thread.

A peasant ran at her with his scythe, breaking through the stuttering time-hold. The sharp blade found her shoulder, cutting through the cloth of her tunic and her flesh. He threw her against the carriage, face contorted with rage. Yelora let the pain and fury and fear course through her. Her staff hummed in her grip as she aimed it. At once, her attacker’s face went slack, and he crumpled to the ground.

“My queen!” Sochee loosed arrows in a frenzy. The time-hold had lapsed. Only one spell could be maintained at a time, and she’d needed to protect herself. “There are too many of them!”

Like insects in the night, the Imperials were a scourge. It wouldn’t hurt to rid the realm of this mangy pocket of them. But Sochee was right. There were too many of them, and with the Riverstone faltering...

Perhaps it was already too late. Two Imperials held Ronith fast, her booted feet kicking helplessly, spittle flying from between her gritted teeth. Sochee was pinned against the carriage, a knife at her throat. Yelora lunged to help her, but two strong hands seized her, her injured shoulder crying out. She was barely able to utter a protection spell over the three of them as a hammer bludgeoned her in the side. The blow hit so hard she wasn’t sure if the spell had taken at all.

Then she was on the ground, sand in her mouth, her staff pinned under her belly. Everything smelled like sweat and dirt and blood-soaked leather.

“Now, we shall see for ourselves what these Elf-thieves are transporting.” The old woman cackled.

Yelora heard the squeak of the carriage door opening. The clank of metal. The giggling.

“Stupid Imperials!” she spat. “You have no idea what you’re doing!” She fought to look over her shoulder. Surely they wouldn’t consider taking the creature for their own? And do what with it? “We must take it to the Alchemist!”

Footfalls crunched in the sand around her as the cage was set on the ground. Under the dark drape, a pale, deformed foot moved. A small cough punctuated the night. Pitiful. Vulnerable. The thing was smarter than she’d given it credit for.

Yelora whispered to the Riverstone, but the stone was silent and spent. Sprites help her! But the sprites did not operate here in these in-between places where Imperials ruled with their roads and their taxes, their horses and camps and their rowdy tent-cities. And now they would discover the Elves’ awful secret. And once the Imperials knew, the Elementals would, too, because the weakened minds of men could not keep secrets.

It would be Yelora’s people’s undoing. Less than a moon into her reign, too.

The old woman reached for the black cloth covering the cage and yanked it off.