Chapter 4

The Maiden from the Lake of Blazing Stars

-Part the Second-

Al played a lively melody, one of those his very soul could summon with effortless grace, and which alway sprang from his fingers like the work of a master. Féven listened intently, her gaze fixed on the endless stretch of beechwood, where the secret night-life of the forest was slowly awakening. The cart rumbled steadily downhill, and after a time the russet hues of the beeches, veiled by the dusk, gave way to the darker green of pines. Younger, shorter trees began clustering around them, thick and close-knit.

At last, Al glimpsed the lights of a settlement shimmering in the distance, along with a glimmering expanse that could only be the lakeshore. As they drew nearer, the outlines of houses loomed faintly through the dim glow of elven lanterns.

The carter did not steer directly into the village but turned left, descending further toward the lakeside and a cluster of household buildings nestled amidst woodland floor and sheltered by the domes of young beeches and pines.

Only now might Al truly see the forest lake, previously hidden by the rocky banks that fenced off the village’s heart from its waters. Smooth as a sheet of glass, it gleamed with a greenish-black sheen under the night sky, where now and again the stars reflected upon its surface, glimmering like white gold.

"Enchanted torches burn within this lake, brighter than the will-o’-the-wisps over the marshes," Al murmured, setting aside his lute as he drifted into thought. "If you stare too long, you forget all else and yearn with your whole being to touch that fire, knowing full well it can never be reached."

"The lake is but a distorted mirror," Féven replied. "The image of the stars wavers in it, bends, widens — laws of nature, that’s all."

Al tore his gaze from the lake and looked at the elven girl, laughing aloud. The cart came to a halt by the woodpile, where a small, friendly fire flickered by the entrance to the woodshed. Féven leapt lightly down from the cart bed and approached the flames, stretching out her hands to warm them. Al followed, and she smiled — a rare third smile since they'd met.

“I was raised by a glassmaker, not a poet,” she said. “And I’ve hardly the imagination of a bard.”

“But that was well said, and not without sense,” she added thoughtfully after a pause, her gaze turning back toward the lake. A sudden breeze slipped from behind the grass, scattering her hair like the tufts of a dandelion. She brushed it from her face with a gentle, careless gesture.

“I feel it too sometimes,” she admitted, “that the reflections of the stars draw me toward them — like something I don’t yet know but ought to, and long to, no matter the cost. Besides… in the village, they say the lake is a magic mirror, that it does not merely reflect the stars but swallows their light, like a bottomless abyss. They say it’s the dwelling of Likho.”

“And does Likho truly dwell there?” Al asked.

Féven glanced at him, and once again he caught a gleam of mirth in her eyes.

“Every village has its tale to frighten children on storytelling nights. If they were all true, Likho would have far too many homes, wouldn’t you say?”

She drew her hands back from the fire and passed by Al, heading toward the cart once more.

"My mother’s workshop stands empty. You can stay there if you like," she said casually ere turning her attention to unharnessing the hedgehog.

Al smiled to himself, pleased, and joined the carter in unloading the branches, stacking them neatly beneath the woodshed’s roof.

The carter chatted and jested with a woodsman they found waiting there, recounting the price he'd fetched for his baskets at the market in the neighbouring village, from which they had just returned. Now and then, he tried to draw Al into the conversation with various questions, but the young elf was not particularly talkative. His attention kept drifting toward Féven, who, having freed the hedgehog from its harness, was now stroking its head and scratching under its chin. The creature leaned eagerly into her touch, and even when she withdrew her hand to tend to the harness, it lingered, gazing at her wistfully before ambling over to a pile of brushwood and beech leaves near the woodshed wall, where it burrowed in as though sinking into a warm quilt.

When their work was finally done, Féven led Al up a winding path away from the lakeshore and back into the depths of the forest. To their left, through the branches, the lights of the settlement still sparkled merrily, while shadowy figures moved about in the village below. They walked mostly in silence. Féven hardly spoke at all, and even Al, usually a chatterer, found himself unusually quiet. He wasn't sure whether it was due to weariness or simply because the silence in Féven's company felt easy, soothing.

Erelong, they ascended a gentle slope, and now from the right came the glow of lanterns strung upon thick beech boughs. The path led them deeper among a cluster of trees, each home to dwellings inhabited by the Forest Folk. They halted at the foot of the last tree. Beneath its twisted root lay a set of dusky blue-grey doors, illuminated by the warm glow of an iron lantern hung above them. Stairs spiralled upward along the trunk, leading to two homes — one small and nestled lower, hidden in shadow behind a curtain of beech leaves, the other larger and radiant with golden light, its windows shining like twin suns. Wisps of translucent, bluish smoke curled from its chimney, cooled by druidic powder to smother sparks and guard the forest from fire.

Féven glanced briefly at the smoke rising into the night sky, then smiled softly, her expression gentle and unguarded.

"Let’s head up first. You must be hungry, and Jyrcho’s probably making supper."

"Hungry’s putting it mildly," Al admitted as he followed her up the crooked spiral staircase, whose steps wound around knots and growths in the beech bark, sometimes giving way to russet-coloured caps of polypores that formed natural footholds.

As they entered the larger house, they were greeted by a warm, bright room and the scent of barberry and dried blackberry cakes, though a faint trace of burning was beginning to creep through the air.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Jyrcho?” Féven called, hurriedly shedding her cloak and hat. Tossing them over the peg, she strode to the hearth in the corner and lifted a pan from the flames.

Al, meanwhile, cast a glance around the room. At its centre stood a rectangular table hewn from a pine trunk, its bench backs twisting outward in a whimsical tangle of branches. To the left was the cooking area, where Féven busied herself rescuing supper, whilst on the right, partially veiled by a curtain of dried beech leaves, lay a pine-bark slab cushioned with moss, serving as someone’s bed.

Two doorways led into adjoining compartments. From one of them emerged a boy, younger than Al and seemingly younger than Féven as well. He looked either drowsy or profoundly bored. With a lazy flick of his hand, he brushed dark, unruly hair from his brow — hair as wild yet soft as Féven’s. His gaze drifted languidly to the elf-girl.

“You’re back. I was just cooking.”

Féven’s lips twitched faintly with amusement as she held up a charred pancake.

“More like burning. Where’s Fet?”

The boy shrugged.

“With Father.” He took the pancake from Féven, bit off a hearty chunk, and chewed slowly, with deliberate indifference. “Good enough for me.”

Then his eyes lit upon Al, gleaming suddenly with interest.

Féven glanced at Al as well. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, as though uncertain why she was studying him with that strange, searching look once more.

He reminds me of a young fox, Al thought, grinning broadly. The grin unsettled her, briefly, and she averted her gaze, turning instead to the boy.

“This is my younger brother, Jyré… Jyrcho. And this is the bard Algén.”

“Al,” the bard added, not taking his eyes from Féven. Her skittishness dissolved like a wisp of frail mist, and she returned to flipping the pancakes.

“Al.” She smiled faintly to herself.

"A bow of the druidic guard!" Jyrcho marvelled, having wandered up behind Al to cast a covetous eye upon the hazelwood arc. "I'd know one anywhere, though I’ve only ever glimpsed it once — from afar, mind you — since Father forbade me from touching it, as he always does with anything worth having."

There was such bitterness in his tone that Féven cast him a reproachful glance.

"Father dislikes weapons, and you were just a child. Why would he let you treat one like a toy?"

"Dislikes weapons!" Jyrcho snorted. "A pack of wolves could be upon us, and he'd neither nock a bow himself nor let us do so."

His gaze wandered back to the bow. "May I see it?" he asked eagerly.

Al shrugged off his bundle and, with care, slipped the bow from his shoulder, holding it out toward the boy.

"Why not?"

The boy seized it eagerly and, settling himself at the table, began tracing the carved patterns on the arc with childlike greed. Al chuckled silently to himself. Shrugging off his cloak and setting his belongings by the wall, he observed Jyrcho awhile. Though he and Féven bore little resemblance, there was something shared between them, enough that their kinship was beyond question.

"Magnificent!" Jyrcho grinned broadly as Al took a seat opposite him at the table. "Where did you get it? Aren't you a bard? Are you part of the guard? I shall be, soon enough! I'll flee this dreary place straight for Sén Serén and join the guard."

"Father will never allow it," Féven interjected calmly as she placed plates and bowls filled with honey dusted with elderflower pollen upon the table. Al stood to help her set them out. She glanced at him from beneath her fringe, playfully somehow, then fetched a platter of pancakes.

"Father, Father... Soon enough he won’t have a say in anything," Jyrcho declared defiantly, dipping a pancake into his honey. "And truth be told, I care not for his word even now."

"Jyrcho!" Féven scolded sharply. The boy jutted his lips in defiance, though his gaze softened, tinged with shame.

"I’m not of the guard," Al answered at last. He too served himself a pancake, though instead of eating, he traced the rim of his plate absently, lost in thought. The fire in the hearth hissed suddenly, like a serpent roused from slumber. Al smiled faintly, with pride. "I belong to nothing and no one. But I know how to shoot a bow, and as a druid’s envoy I set forth from Sén Serén. That’s how I came by the druidic bow."

"You’re an envoy? Of the Council?" Jyrcho, who had seemed momentarily disappointed by Al’s lack of ties to the guard, perked up again. "Where did they send you? What errand?"

"He’s bound by secrecy, surely," Féven answered in Al's stead, resting her chin on her hands. After a moment’s quiet, curiosity sparked anew in her gaze.

"What is he like?" she asked suddenly.

Al furrowed his brow, puzzled.

"Nol," Féven clarified. "As an envoy, you know him better than most. They say he's the most skilful druid in centuries. What is he truly like? Can he really do all they claim?"

Al laughed and shrugged.

"I've no idea. I know nothing of alchemy, nor do I care to. To me, Nol's a sombre oddity. Though he seems born to rule, and there's a strange power about him — impossible not to notice. But why does he interest you?"

"I don't know," Féven replied, shrugging gently. Her expression grew solemn once more as she idly picked at her pancake, lost in thought. After a while, she rose and made her way to the kitchen to fetch a jug of juice. Al returned to his own meal, though his eyes often strayed to the elven girl, as though each of her movements held some curious, unfathomable secret.

"Fév's a witch in her own right," Jyrcho mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Knows all about herbs and brews potions like some alchemist. That’s why she's interested in every oddity that crosses her path. No one’s more dotty than our brother, and Féven and Father think he’s some kind of genius."

"What?" he added defensively under Féven’s reproachful glare. "It’s the truth. Anyway," he turned back to Al, "you’ll see for yourself soon enough."

For a short while, they ate in silence, till a sudden gleam lit up Jyrcho’s eyes. "Father says there’ll be war. Do you know anything about it?" he asked, as though nothing could thrill him more than such a prospect.

The question caught Al off guard, unexpectedly reminding him of Gerod. Yet the bard brushed the thought aside — something else puzzled him far more. How does a glassmaker from this wilderness, where Likho haunt the lakes, know aught of a war that only took me by surprise a month ago?

"There might be," Al conceded, "though it's a long way off yet." He narrowed his eyes. "What would you want with war?"

"It makes it easier to become a warrior," Jyrcho answered, as if the matter were self-evident. Al laughed heartily.

"Have you ever killed anything?" he asked.

"No," Jyrcho admitted, glancing up from beneath his fringe.

"Then don't be in such haste for it," Al said, still smiling.

Silence settled over them again. Al felt weariness creeping over him, his eyelids growing heavy. He was grateful when Féven spoke up, saying she would show him to the workshop where he was to spend the night. He drained the last of his raspberry juice and, gathering his belongings, followed the elf-maid from the house into the cool night air.

The night seemed darker now, for the Misty Wanderer had hidden himself behind a veil of clouds, and the lanterns hanging from the neighbouring tree had flickered out. Féven walked ahead, holding a small lantern aloft, its wavering light guiding them down the spiralling steps. When they reached the base, she pushed open the blue-painted door and disappeared into the hollow within.

Watching his step to avoid slipping into the tangled roots, Al followed her inside.

From the lantern’s flame, she lit a waiting lamp upon the table, its warm yellow-white glow spreading across the workshop. Al glanced about. Baskets woven from pine needles brimmed with skeins, threads, and fabrics, whilst shelves crowded with cauldrons and flasks of every size teetered in disarray. Approaching the table, he ran his hand curiously over a bundle of dried blossoms and vivid scraps of linen.

"My mother was a dyer," Féven said, answering his questioning glance. She too looked around, as if the workshop were a place strange to her or long forgotten. "This was her secret stronghold. She loved us dearly and let us do as we pleased — but here, we were seldom allowed."

"I'm beginning to feel like a trespasser," Al jested.

"No need," she replied lightly. "It’s only a hollow. No one’s used it since Mother passed. Only Fet comes here now and then."

"Your other brother?"

Féven nodded, smiling softly, just as she had when bidding him upstairs for supper. Her amber eyes glimmered, reminiscent of stars reflected in the lake earlier that evening.

Perhaps she truly is a witch, Al thought with quiet amusement. Féven lingered for a moment, studying him thoughtfully.

But she does smile prettily.

"Light the stove. It’s cold in here," she said at last, handing him a quick command ere taking up the lantern once more. Casting one final glance at Al, she slipped out of the workshop, leaving him to the warmth yet unkindled.