Chao
Setting sail for fail in the sea of lame.
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Hey, all. This is a story that is FAR from complete. I'm posting it here because I'd love a) some feedback, and b) some motivation to keep going.
Since there are quite a few chapters, I've broken them down into spoilers.
enjoy!
Chapter 1 - Of the Gifted Children
Chapter Two – The Season of Songs
Since there are quite a few chapters, I've broken them down into spoilers.
enjoy!
Dark times were coming to the continent of Veras. Everyone knew it. Even humans, mortals with no sense of magic without years of intense training could tell. It was a world set to crash. But no prophet could tell how, and no oracle could tell why, no shaman could tell when. Nor could an agreement be reached.
Alas, a gnome was correct.
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to be felled by one born of ill-timing.”
“Blech! Whassat mean?”
“Uh – well…” the female gnome stuttered, “it means what it means. The interpretation is in the meaning.”
The man, who had risen after hearing his fortune, teetered dangerously, with the diminutive and hapless gnome slowly moving in, claiming guardianship over her crystal ball. “That’s garbage, useless!” He stumbled out.
Keeran, obviously relieved by the drunk’s departure, sighed a deep breath and calmly focused on the ball again. What did the reading mean? How did it apply to some drunk? Keeran stared hard into the crystal ball, but the haze she had seen moments earlier was gone, the abhorrent face in the mist that had frozen her little, rapidly beating heart was gone with it. What was the Season of Songs? Why was it so familiar, and why so important? And why the drunk? A sane person would have seen that reading as more than a fortune. That was an omen.
Her attention was drawn by a light plopping noise and she looked up. Something had fallen on top of her tent. And it was moving.
The drunk, William McTagard, stumbled out of the purple-and-yellow fly tent and back out into the streets of Hayden. The county fair was a jumbled blaze of firelights and twistedly comedic visages, peasants dancing in masks, lutes and stringed instruments bellowing their merry tunes.
William ignored all of this. He wanted to go home. Or at least get somewhere near home and pass out. He half-decided to take a familiar shortcut through an alley. He ambled along, his vision a blurry mess. He could see the light at the end of the passage.
A soft noise came from behind him. He turned resignedly around to see what it was, but instead only saw the entrance and heard the fading sounds of the carnival.
When he turned back to continue along, there stood before him a black figure.
He had armor the shade of a midnight sky, trimmed in a glossy onyx that gave way and coincided with the shadows hidden around him. He wore no mask, but had on a helm that pincered inward to his mouth, granting a vertical slit with which the figure’s lips and the bridge of his nose could be made out. The figure’s eyes were hollow, and he donned a midnight blue helix that came to a sharp point after only a single circulation, glyphed in the center of his chestpeice.
“Whu –”
“The omen was correct.”
“Wha –”
William McTagard was sliced from the brim of his tattered hat to the tip of his groin in a single movement so fast that William could not have registered the imminent attack if he were sober. The sword that rent the man was flicked in a gesture; blood spattered on the cobblestone walkway and some, too, on the bricked building beside the blade. With a quick wipe along his black cloak and an inexorable nod of satisfaction, the mysterious assassin of William McTagard sheathed his sword and blended back into the shadows with but a whisper, “the omen was correct.”
Alas, a gnome was correct.
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to be felled by one born of ill-timing.”
“Blech! Whassat mean?”
“Uh – well…” the female gnome stuttered, “it means what it means. The interpretation is in the meaning.”
The man, who had risen after hearing his fortune, teetered dangerously, with the diminutive and hapless gnome slowly moving in, claiming guardianship over her crystal ball. “That’s garbage, useless!” He stumbled out.
Keeran, obviously relieved by the drunk’s departure, sighed a deep breath and calmly focused on the ball again. What did the reading mean? How did it apply to some drunk? Keeran stared hard into the crystal ball, but the haze she had seen moments earlier was gone, the abhorrent face in the mist that had frozen her little, rapidly beating heart was gone with it. What was the Season of Songs? Why was it so familiar, and why so important? And why the drunk? A sane person would have seen that reading as more than a fortune. That was an omen.
Her attention was drawn by a light plopping noise and she looked up. Something had fallen on top of her tent. And it was moving.
The drunk, William McTagard, stumbled out of the purple-and-yellow fly tent and back out into the streets of Hayden. The county fair was a jumbled blaze of firelights and twistedly comedic visages, peasants dancing in masks, lutes and stringed instruments bellowing their merry tunes.
William ignored all of this. He wanted to go home. Or at least get somewhere near home and pass out. He half-decided to take a familiar shortcut through an alley. He ambled along, his vision a blurry mess. He could see the light at the end of the passage.
A soft noise came from behind him. He turned resignedly around to see what it was, but instead only saw the entrance and heard the fading sounds of the carnival.
When he turned back to continue along, there stood before him a black figure.
He had armor the shade of a midnight sky, trimmed in a glossy onyx that gave way and coincided with the shadows hidden around him. He wore no mask, but had on a helm that pincered inward to his mouth, granting a vertical slit with which the figure’s lips and the bridge of his nose could be made out. The figure’s eyes were hollow, and he donned a midnight blue helix that came to a sharp point after only a single circulation, glyphed in the center of his chestpeice.
“Whu –”
“The omen was correct.”
“Wha –”
William McTagard was sliced from the brim of his tattered hat to the tip of his groin in a single movement so fast that William could not have registered the imminent attack if he were sober. The sword that rent the man was flicked in a gesture; blood spattered on the cobblestone walkway and some, too, on the bricked building beside the blade. With a quick wipe along his black cloak and an inexorable nod of satisfaction, the mysterious assassin of William McTagard sheathed his sword and blended back into the shadows with but a whisper, “the omen was correct.”
Chapter 1 - Of the Gifted Children
It was an unexpected birth. But alas, seven years, two months and seventeen days after the omen of the gnome Keeran Whistlebender, which had become Keeran’s Foretell to the populace, in the farthest reaches of the West, in the well-hidden elven village of Dainshire, the child known as Shaelildrian was born to Archillea Terrasil. In a village of only four hundred, a birth unknown to the masses was a very big ordeal. As it were, unpredicted.
But most unexpected of all was the birth to Archillea herself, for she had not been a pregnant woman the very day before. She found herself awakened in the middle of the night beside her husband, Doradus, screaming in the pains of labour. The screams were such to awaken the quiet village and gather them in pools at the door of the Terrasil house.
The Terrasils, Archillea and Doradus, were not of the wealthier class within the town. They were not poor by any means; Doradus was a hard-working craftsman, assisting in the construction of all houses built in the area. Doradus himself had lovingly built their house; it was two floors, mahogany with a lighter trim and an arched roof that, at its zenith, had a carved gryphon mounted atop it. Similar beasts were symmetrically aligned at the lowest points of the roof.
All houses in Dainshire, nae, in all elven cities, were built with the same architectural styles; the roofs were all arched inward, so as to produce a top point; all windows were ovular, with the longer side vertically inclined; most had balconies on the second floor, with intricately carved dowels lining the railings. The elves never made use of the ‘porch’ that humans seemed to love so much. The elves hid their gutters with stylized designs and weavings in wooden channels, carrying the rainwater around the sides of the house and into the backyard, usually into a pool or a channel leading elsewhere.
The Terrasil house had all of the above (except, of course, the porch), although the ideal thing to have on that blustery, chill night would have been some form of soundproofing. The wails of Archillea were heard far and wide. All residents of Dainshire had gathered before the house, with several of the elder villagers preparing to enter and do what they could.
“Out of my way! Move aside!” an elf of larger-than-average ears (which came to a point at their end, as with all elves), sharp eyes and an ever-grim expression made his way through the crowd faster than it would part for him. He had a role to perform. He threw open the front door, stared out at the citizens for a moment, and then slammed it behind him.
Within a half-hour, Seldras, the High Druid of Dainshire, had performed the birth with the ease a magic-user always has. He stepped onto the balcony of the second floor in his glittery, earthen-toned robes and proclaimed, “A child has been born this night. A male.” A male who did not cry at birth, but only gazed on with a sense of wonder at the world around him. Not one sound. Seldras hadn’t had time to reflect upon this, but an all-too-mortal shiver crept up his spine when the boy gazed up at him.
The citizens below naturally reacted with a sense of surprise at first, then outrage at their misinformation of Archillea’s pregnancy, then worry; elves could only conceive children during the Season of Songs – it was an event which took place in secrecy only once every ten years. It had been a mere three years since the last, and additionally, the pregnancy of an elven woman lasts for five months, with notable signs present during the fourth month. Could Archillea hide a child so well?
“The child’s name, as proclaimed by Archillea Terrasil, is Shaelildrian Terrasil. The matter at hand is grave, but the child is healthy, and to current, we’ve no reason to fear conspiracy. The matter will be looked into.” With that, he stepped upon the balcony’s railing with one foot and over the railing into thin air with the other. As if on cue, a root sprang from the earth a storey below, sending many citizens back several feet. The root formed a step. As Seldras continued down the steps, the root split into a second head, then a third, then a fourth, and so on until the ground was reached. Then the multi-headed tendril pulled itself back under, leaving only a hole so small that only a child’s hand could fit within.
At the bottom, calmly, without the booming voice and commanding presence he’d possessed atop the balcony, Seldras said, “the matter will be looked into,” then, when nobody moved, he snapped and flailed his arms, “go home!”
The citizens scattered.
“Sir?” a shy voice came from behind.
Seldras turned, “what?”
A young elven woman stood before him with a look of grave concern in her eyes, accompanied by a man with the same expression, one arm around his partner’s far shoulder, the other laid upon her arm. “Sir, we’ve news.”
“What news?” his voice was impatient.
The elven woman placed her hand upon her belly, her eyes never leaving the High Druid’s.
Seldras’ eyes widened, staring at her belly. Yes. Now that the crowd was dispersing, he could tell. Three lives stood before him. This woman was pregnant as well.
“How?” his voice was scathing with rage.
“We don’t know,” said the wife, looking down to avoid the piercing gaze of the High Druid.
“How could you conceive?”
“She said we don’t know,” said the husband, trying to remain as passive as possible. He didn’t wish to make Seldras any more bitter.
“Lunacy!” Seldras spat. He stormed off without another word.
The woman, Arieanna, and her husband, Ialanis, had no choice.
Ialanis left his wife’s side and began trudging back to their home. “Come on, Arieanna. He won’t help us.”
“Yes, he will,” Arieanna replied to her husband. She stood still, watching the flowing garb of their High Druid as he slowly disappeared into the night. “He already has, and I don’t think he fully knows it.” Arieanna watched from the distance as a similar root came loose from the earth and elevated the High Druid to a point near the top of a tree, where a small lantern could be seen glowing a faint shade of green near the peak.
“What do you mean?”
“By telling us that we aren’t alone,” Arieanna gazed almost dreamily in the direction of the birthplace of Shaelildrian. “If he wanted the birth to be a secret, he could have concealed it.”
“Maybe your right, darling. Just maybe. Come, we should get off the street.”
Once the root that Seldras had beckoned from the earth had taken him to the hidden entrance to his home (not even the elves of Dainshire knew, but a section of the bark on the far side of Seldras’ tree concealed the true entrance; the house was simply a smoke-and-mirrors trap for greedy, magic-hungry intruders), he paused only a moment. The presence of at least three others joined him in the room.
“Come forth.”
Seldras moved to the next room and sure enough, three images stood. One, a woman, holding a straight staff with a purple raven, smooth like ivory, idolized atop it; the second, an elderly man with a long beard and a gnarled walking stick held at waist-height; the third, a young elf with blond hair, sharp eyes and his hands at his sides. All wore the same glittery, earthen robes and were translucent, as their physical forms were miles away in different directions.
The images were mental projections of the other High Druids in Veras. Each guarded their own cities and kept the peace among their people. The High Druids were also charged with passing on the Druid Lore, a much-sought text and set of teachings that enabled the elves to command the forces of nature. No other race had ever found the knowledge. Alas, when something happened to one High Druid, the others were always involved.
“You’ve heard. News travels fast,” said Seldras.
“We have,” said the old man.
“Indeed,” proclaimed the young one.
“We have come,” said the woman.
“Who is this child?” asked Seldras. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Something, in fact, that the Gods are not telling us,” said the old man.
“What do you mean?”
“Explain, Gerriallil,” commanded the woman.
Gerriallil, an elf of many winters, began to speak in a dusty voice, “we have reason to believe that a demigod has impregnated a woman of your kin. Farfetched though it does sound, it is not unheard of. Why, my father was one of a demigod; Hylius was his name, a demigod of life, in the pools of Evertide. We thought nigh of such a possibility, thought that conspiracy was afoot, but surely, when he reached a rightful age, my father began healing miraculously. When a demigod selects a rightful suitor with which to bear a child, the woman carrying such an infant should not be scorned, but exalted. Though to mark the difference, my father was still born to the cycle. Perhaps, if a demigod had selected Shaelildrian to be born, it was imperative he was born when he was?”
Seldras thought for a moment, at which time the youngest member of their council, Linnitael, spoke up, “the woman is a tramp. She and her child should be strung high for the town to see. What an embarrassment. Why do you waste your time in Dainshire?”
“She is no tramp. She has been a faithful and loyal servant of our village, offering her hand even prior this day, and prior to giving birth. You will not speak such words in my chamber. And I waste my time here because Lord Shellihn ordered it. No further reason will be given to you, Linnitael.”
Linnitael scowled in his translucent form, noticeably, but did not carry on. If the orders of the Lord of the Elves, Shellihn, were in Seldras’s hands, there was no use arguing.
Forygia, the woman, spoke, “if Gerriallil speaks the truth, then we shall not wane from his belief.” She spoke with some doubt. “As Lord Shellihn commands it, so shall it be. Perhaps he knows what we do not. I will seek his council on the morrow, but as of now require rest. I suggest the very same for us all. Adieu.” Her image faded away, followed in moments by Linnitael’s, his fierce expression unchanged.
Seldras turned from his council chamber, when the aged, dusty voice of Gerriallil turned him back, “oh, Seldras.”
“Yes?”
“Remember the prophecy. Remember Keeran’s Foretell.”
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to be felled by one born of ill-timing.”
“Yes.”
“When will there be a chill Season of Songs? The event is mid-spring. And when will the moon fall?”
“A lesson I’ve learned in all my old age, child of the woods, is that time will tell all things. The hourglass contains the grain of sand that will raise this evil. When this grain will fall is not my decision, nor is it yours. Walk through the shadows with time. Shed light where you can. And keep Shaelildrian safe.”
“Gerriallil, there is something else.”
“What is that, young one?”
“A second child.”
Gerriallil’s expression was solemn, but the dread could be seen in his subtle movements – his eyes lit up with dread. “What?”
“In the belly of another villager. At least three months along.”
“This matter will need to be investigated. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Get rest, child. These next weeks shall be eventful.”
Seven years, two months and seventeen days after the omen of Keeran Whistlebender, and exactly three years after the last Season of Songs, Shaelildrian was born. At the time of Shaelildrian’s birth, only one other child had been present in Dainshire.
Naeanin Windsong.
Naeanin’s birth, given the nature of Keeran’s Foretell and its reference to the Season of Songs, had been the most protected birth in all of Dainshire’s history. Elven patrols had been enlisted to come and protect Dainshire; it had been the same with Sylael, Verin Vessa, Verin Quotos, and Varian, the main elven towns and cities throughout the land. The roads that they once guarded were left defenseless, and how lucky it was that no attacks took place.
Very few children were conceived in this Season of Songs; the worry and angst of the event led very few even to conception.
The Windsongs, Olidus and Nae, were political advisors to Lord Shellihn, and as such had a very lucrative estate in Dainshire, as well as a personal guard that doubled the defenses of the town itself.
Naeanin was therefore raised with the sort of propriety that a wealthy family always provided, and as such was a rare sight to see, though her birth was a town-wide celebrated event that Olidus held in the center of Dainshire.
Naeanin stayed out of sight, out of mind, and out of trouble. It was the proper thing for an elven lady to do. But having none other around for her to talk to, what with her family away as they were, left her unwell in ways that her family would never truly come to realize.
The day after Shaelildrian’s birth, Forygia made her appearance before the Lord of the Elves, Shellihn. Being the High Druid of the capital city, Sylael, she was naturally closest.
His council hall was in the highest tree of Sylael, very long, and everything was made of marble; marble archways led down the length of the hall, supported by marble columns and backed by great marble walls with cathedral windows, which flooded vast rays of light upon the marble floor. Each column was marked by the Elven Elite, a group of specialized warriors that fought with Sunblades – magically enchanted swords with elongated hilts that glowed bright green when malevolence was about, as well as several other powerful dweomers known only to those that had suffered their wrath, and only for as long as mercy allowed – this was never more than a few seconds. The back of the room was semispherical, with Shellihn’s throne mounted directly in the center up a small flight of marble stairs. He was a very powerful figure, humble as it were, but he did not trust Forygia.
She kneeled before him on the platform several steps below his throne. He was not sitting upon it, but rather, pacing.
“My Lord.”
“Seldras has sent the news. It arrived by owl carrier early this morning.”
A tinge of jealousy spun about Forygia. Shellihn caught it all.
“Are we alright with this, Forygia, High Druid of Sylael?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
The Lord of the Elves was not crowned so without years of service to the elven community. Shellihn had been the High Druid of Verian before Forygia had taken his place as he advanced to the throne; in fact, he had seen a full Season over Gerriallil (making him thus ten years older, since the Season of Songs happens only in this timeframe), though he had not succumbed to the same quasi-senile fate as his old friend.
Being as venerable as he was also made him as powerful a spellcaster as any headmaster of any school of the arcane arts, and certainly moreso than any other spellcaster in employment anywhere (battlemages in gladiator arenas, warmages in armies, and spellwarders, to name a few, boasted no challenge to the High Lord); of course, his craft was considered exotic, so in ways, he had advantages that such magic-users could only dream about.
“Good. Then what news do you bring me?”
“I only wish to seek your council, my Lord.”
“My council regarding the birth of this child and the birth to come, I presume?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Forygia was quick to respond to this but had no idea what ‘birth to come’ Shellihn was referring to. Another, greater tinge of jealousy swam in Forygia’s blood.
“I pace because as of yet, my thoughts have not come through to comprehend this. I have seen thirty-four Seasons of Song, High Druid, and yet never in that time has something of this magnitude happened. The people demand an explanation, and I can tell them nothing. I have my best diviners attempting communications with whatever Gods will hear our pleas for answers, but that is truly all I can do.” He continued pacing a moment longer, and then stopped and turned to her, “and why do I tell you this? Regardless of whatever talents you possess as a High Druid, you are not yet in a position to seek my council. There is nothing more I can tell you, Forygia.”
Something snapped in Forygia then, only for but a moment, because the Sunblades of the nearest six guards along the columns flashed only for a moment, springing to life the statuesque regiment with prying eyes about the room. “Thank you, my Lord.” She rose from the kneel, her glittery robes trailing behind her along the floor, and stopped for a moment before the first set of guards, who were still prone and ready for action. As if on cue, all of the Elven Elite snapped their Sunblades up and then slammed them to the marble floor, sending a single harsh, echoing note about the room.
And Forygia continued on her way, heart in the utmost wrong place.
“Kai-Thul,” Shellihn whispered, so softly that even the closest Elven Elite with their keen ears were none the wiser.
Water began to condensate upon the throne just behind the head of Shellihn, so rapidly that within seconds it had formed a translucent face with eyes as blue as the ocean. Shellihn had only to whisper to the doppelganger’s puppet.
“Follow her. Make sure we know where she’s going.”
As noiselessly as it had come, the face became a puff of vapor that disappeared into the marble rafters of the Lord of the Elves’s chamber.
Once out of sight, Shellihn sighed. He hated that it had come to this. And even moreso, he feared for that which was both ahead of him, and behind him.
Two months later, from the front door of Ialanis’ and Arieanna’s house, Seldras once again came forth, announcing the birth of a baby girl, perfectly healthy. She was also perfectly silent, as Shaelildrian was. A second child of no tears, just fascination at the very things that all people take for granted. The citizens of Dainshire became even more engrossed in the mystery; how were these children being born? Seldras thought he knew; but demigods were a rare sight, let alone to come so close to civilization. He would surely sense such presence; how could this be?
Seldras had been in extremely close contact with Archillea and Doradus as to Shaelildrian’s health, condition, and development. He was, as of yet, an average child. Maybe a conspiracy was afoot. The child had no special abilities. Alas, two months was too soon to tell, but Seldras’ mind was corrupted by this being; a seed had been planted by Gerriallil’s warnings months ago, and it had sprouted to a tree, each leaf another worry.
When Archillea brought Shaelildrian to see Alenea (children birthed of the same generation were raised among each other, to nurture social development), something happened. The pair, one just over two months old, the other, only a little over a day, stationed in a well-crafted crib, stared at each other, eyes wide. It was as though they found one another to be the greatest wonders of the world. Upon this breaking of contact, the two children began to wail. The mothers could not calm their children except to bring them to the same presence. Ialanis immediately rushed to see Seldras and brought the High Druid back to witness the event himself.
Upon arrival, the two prodigal infants were seen sleeping with one another in the crib. Archillea decided that it would be enough and carefully took Shaelildrian from Alenea’s side. The child became squeamish for a moment but soon regained composure in sleep. Seldras frowned at having been disturbed and Ialanis left to walk him back to his roost.
Upon Alenea’s awakening, Arieanna expected the worst; fortunately, the child made not a sound. Arieanna felt a staggering relief, but couldn’t help wondering what had triggered the outburst of emotion in the first place.
And then happened the first sign of many terrors to come for Arieanna.
The crib that Alenea was in had a small mobile, a carousel of brightly coloured animals, carved by her father; Alenea’s gaze wandered upon it and it began turning. A slow, steady, cool breeze ran by Arieanna and she noticed the mobile. Her breath ran out.
The breeze was unnatural. The mobile was spinning from some other force. Arieanna slowly moved out of the room and then began breathing again, rapidly, with fear. The child, born yesterday, was learning magic. The child, born yesterday, was learning magic. Either that, or an awful prank. But whom? Seldras was the only known magic-user in the entirety of the village. The only one present, anyhow; one of the other elvish families in the town had a child born the season before last who was in attendance at one of the arcane institutions, but the boy would not be back for many months, still.
In a village of Dainshire’s size, a magic-user would have to instead move on to the city of Varian for training; when they became talented, Sylael, or a human city. As it was with all fighters and mages. None stayed. This meant that, in the event that Alanea was in fact the culprit behind the mobile’s rotation, neither would Alenea. In silent contemplation, Arieanna thought about this. It wouldn’t be so bad. And then her thoughts rewound back over their old quarrels.
How could she conceive? It was far from the Season of Songs. Nothing made sense, and facts mixed with possibility whirled about her with such mental rapidity as to force her to her knees, in tears.
“Arieanna?” Ialanis had returned. “Arieanna?”
“I’m in here.”
Ialanis stood in the wooden doorframe, which was carved beautifully with swirling oak wood, then rushed to the aid of his wife, “why have you fallen? Are you alright?”
“Did you not see our daughter?”
Ialanis helped Arieanna to her feet and the two stepped into the next room, were Alenea’s crib was.
The mobile had completely stopped moving. All that was left was a gurgling baby, waiting to have an after-nap snack.
“What is it, Arieanna?”
She hesitated.
“Arieanna?”
“Nothing,” she looked at her husband and smiled softly, “nothing at all.”
But most unexpected of all was the birth to Archillea herself, for she had not been a pregnant woman the very day before. She found herself awakened in the middle of the night beside her husband, Doradus, screaming in the pains of labour. The screams were such to awaken the quiet village and gather them in pools at the door of the Terrasil house.
The Terrasils, Archillea and Doradus, were not of the wealthier class within the town. They were not poor by any means; Doradus was a hard-working craftsman, assisting in the construction of all houses built in the area. Doradus himself had lovingly built their house; it was two floors, mahogany with a lighter trim and an arched roof that, at its zenith, had a carved gryphon mounted atop it. Similar beasts were symmetrically aligned at the lowest points of the roof.
All houses in Dainshire, nae, in all elven cities, were built with the same architectural styles; the roofs were all arched inward, so as to produce a top point; all windows were ovular, with the longer side vertically inclined; most had balconies on the second floor, with intricately carved dowels lining the railings. The elves never made use of the ‘porch’ that humans seemed to love so much. The elves hid their gutters with stylized designs and weavings in wooden channels, carrying the rainwater around the sides of the house and into the backyard, usually into a pool or a channel leading elsewhere.
The Terrasil house had all of the above (except, of course, the porch), although the ideal thing to have on that blustery, chill night would have been some form of soundproofing. The wails of Archillea were heard far and wide. All residents of Dainshire had gathered before the house, with several of the elder villagers preparing to enter and do what they could.
“Out of my way! Move aside!” an elf of larger-than-average ears (which came to a point at their end, as with all elves), sharp eyes and an ever-grim expression made his way through the crowd faster than it would part for him. He had a role to perform. He threw open the front door, stared out at the citizens for a moment, and then slammed it behind him.
Within a half-hour, Seldras, the High Druid of Dainshire, had performed the birth with the ease a magic-user always has. He stepped onto the balcony of the second floor in his glittery, earthen-toned robes and proclaimed, “A child has been born this night. A male.” A male who did not cry at birth, but only gazed on with a sense of wonder at the world around him. Not one sound. Seldras hadn’t had time to reflect upon this, but an all-too-mortal shiver crept up his spine when the boy gazed up at him.
The citizens below naturally reacted with a sense of surprise at first, then outrage at their misinformation of Archillea’s pregnancy, then worry; elves could only conceive children during the Season of Songs – it was an event which took place in secrecy only once every ten years. It had been a mere three years since the last, and additionally, the pregnancy of an elven woman lasts for five months, with notable signs present during the fourth month. Could Archillea hide a child so well?
“The child’s name, as proclaimed by Archillea Terrasil, is Shaelildrian Terrasil. The matter at hand is grave, but the child is healthy, and to current, we’ve no reason to fear conspiracy. The matter will be looked into.” With that, he stepped upon the balcony’s railing with one foot and over the railing into thin air with the other. As if on cue, a root sprang from the earth a storey below, sending many citizens back several feet. The root formed a step. As Seldras continued down the steps, the root split into a second head, then a third, then a fourth, and so on until the ground was reached. Then the multi-headed tendril pulled itself back under, leaving only a hole so small that only a child’s hand could fit within.
At the bottom, calmly, without the booming voice and commanding presence he’d possessed atop the balcony, Seldras said, “the matter will be looked into,” then, when nobody moved, he snapped and flailed his arms, “go home!”
The citizens scattered.
“Sir?” a shy voice came from behind.
Seldras turned, “what?”
A young elven woman stood before him with a look of grave concern in her eyes, accompanied by a man with the same expression, one arm around his partner’s far shoulder, the other laid upon her arm. “Sir, we’ve news.”
“What news?” his voice was impatient.
The elven woman placed her hand upon her belly, her eyes never leaving the High Druid’s.
Seldras’ eyes widened, staring at her belly. Yes. Now that the crowd was dispersing, he could tell. Three lives stood before him. This woman was pregnant as well.
“How?” his voice was scathing with rage.
“We don’t know,” said the wife, looking down to avoid the piercing gaze of the High Druid.
“How could you conceive?”
“She said we don’t know,” said the husband, trying to remain as passive as possible. He didn’t wish to make Seldras any more bitter.
“Lunacy!” Seldras spat. He stormed off without another word.
The woman, Arieanna, and her husband, Ialanis, had no choice.
Ialanis left his wife’s side and began trudging back to their home. “Come on, Arieanna. He won’t help us.”
“Yes, he will,” Arieanna replied to her husband. She stood still, watching the flowing garb of their High Druid as he slowly disappeared into the night. “He already has, and I don’t think he fully knows it.” Arieanna watched from the distance as a similar root came loose from the earth and elevated the High Druid to a point near the top of a tree, where a small lantern could be seen glowing a faint shade of green near the peak.
“What do you mean?”
“By telling us that we aren’t alone,” Arieanna gazed almost dreamily in the direction of the birthplace of Shaelildrian. “If he wanted the birth to be a secret, he could have concealed it.”
“Maybe your right, darling. Just maybe. Come, we should get off the street.”
Once the root that Seldras had beckoned from the earth had taken him to the hidden entrance to his home (not even the elves of Dainshire knew, but a section of the bark on the far side of Seldras’ tree concealed the true entrance; the house was simply a smoke-and-mirrors trap for greedy, magic-hungry intruders), he paused only a moment. The presence of at least three others joined him in the room.
“Come forth.”
Seldras moved to the next room and sure enough, three images stood. One, a woman, holding a straight staff with a purple raven, smooth like ivory, idolized atop it; the second, an elderly man with a long beard and a gnarled walking stick held at waist-height; the third, a young elf with blond hair, sharp eyes and his hands at his sides. All wore the same glittery, earthen robes and were translucent, as their physical forms were miles away in different directions.
The images were mental projections of the other High Druids in Veras. Each guarded their own cities and kept the peace among their people. The High Druids were also charged with passing on the Druid Lore, a much-sought text and set of teachings that enabled the elves to command the forces of nature. No other race had ever found the knowledge. Alas, when something happened to one High Druid, the others were always involved.
“You’ve heard. News travels fast,” said Seldras.
“We have,” said the old man.
“Indeed,” proclaimed the young one.
“We have come,” said the woman.
“Who is this child?” asked Seldras. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Something, in fact, that the Gods are not telling us,” said the old man.
“What do you mean?”
“Explain, Gerriallil,” commanded the woman.
Gerriallil, an elf of many winters, began to speak in a dusty voice, “we have reason to believe that a demigod has impregnated a woman of your kin. Farfetched though it does sound, it is not unheard of. Why, my father was one of a demigod; Hylius was his name, a demigod of life, in the pools of Evertide. We thought nigh of such a possibility, thought that conspiracy was afoot, but surely, when he reached a rightful age, my father began healing miraculously. When a demigod selects a rightful suitor with which to bear a child, the woman carrying such an infant should not be scorned, but exalted. Though to mark the difference, my father was still born to the cycle. Perhaps, if a demigod had selected Shaelildrian to be born, it was imperative he was born when he was?”
Seldras thought for a moment, at which time the youngest member of their council, Linnitael, spoke up, “the woman is a tramp. She and her child should be strung high for the town to see. What an embarrassment. Why do you waste your time in Dainshire?”
“She is no tramp. She has been a faithful and loyal servant of our village, offering her hand even prior this day, and prior to giving birth. You will not speak such words in my chamber. And I waste my time here because Lord Shellihn ordered it. No further reason will be given to you, Linnitael.”
Linnitael scowled in his translucent form, noticeably, but did not carry on. If the orders of the Lord of the Elves, Shellihn, were in Seldras’s hands, there was no use arguing.
Forygia, the woman, spoke, “if Gerriallil speaks the truth, then we shall not wane from his belief.” She spoke with some doubt. “As Lord Shellihn commands it, so shall it be. Perhaps he knows what we do not. I will seek his council on the morrow, but as of now require rest. I suggest the very same for us all. Adieu.” Her image faded away, followed in moments by Linnitael’s, his fierce expression unchanged.
Seldras turned from his council chamber, when the aged, dusty voice of Gerriallil turned him back, “oh, Seldras.”
“Yes?”
“Remember the prophecy. Remember Keeran’s Foretell.”
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to be felled by one born of ill-timing.”
“Yes.”
“When will there be a chill Season of Songs? The event is mid-spring. And when will the moon fall?”
“A lesson I’ve learned in all my old age, child of the woods, is that time will tell all things. The hourglass contains the grain of sand that will raise this evil. When this grain will fall is not my decision, nor is it yours. Walk through the shadows with time. Shed light where you can. And keep Shaelildrian safe.”
“Gerriallil, there is something else.”
“What is that, young one?”
“A second child.”
Gerriallil’s expression was solemn, but the dread could be seen in his subtle movements – his eyes lit up with dread. “What?”
“In the belly of another villager. At least three months along.”
“This matter will need to be investigated. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Get rest, child. These next weeks shall be eventful.”
Seven years, two months and seventeen days after the omen of Keeran Whistlebender, and exactly three years after the last Season of Songs, Shaelildrian was born. At the time of Shaelildrian’s birth, only one other child had been present in Dainshire.
Naeanin Windsong.
Naeanin’s birth, given the nature of Keeran’s Foretell and its reference to the Season of Songs, had been the most protected birth in all of Dainshire’s history. Elven patrols had been enlisted to come and protect Dainshire; it had been the same with Sylael, Verin Vessa, Verin Quotos, and Varian, the main elven towns and cities throughout the land. The roads that they once guarded were left defenseless, and how lucky it was that no attacks took place.
Very few children were conceived in this Season of Songs; the worry and angst of the event led very few even to conception.
The Windsongs, Olidus and Nae, were political advisors to Lord Shellihn, and as such had a very lucrative estate in Dainshire, as well as a personal guard that doubled the defenses of the town itself.
Naeanin was therefore raised with the sort of propriety that a wealthy family always provided, and as such was a rare sight to see, though her birth was a town-wide celebrated event that Olidus held in the center of Dainshire.
Naeanin stayed out of sight, out of mind, and out of trouble. It was the proper thing for an elven lady to do. But having none other around for her to talk to, what with her family away as they were, left her unwell in ways that her family would never truly come to realize.
The day after Shaelildrian’s birth, Forygia made her appearance before the Lord of the Elves, Shellihn. Being the High Druid of the capital city, Sylael, she was naturally closest.
His council hall was in the highest tree of Sylael, very long, and everything was made of marble; marble archways led down the length of the hall, supported by marble columns and backed by great marble walls with cathedral windows, which flooded vast rays of light upon the marble floor. Each column was marked by the Elven Elite, a group of specialized warriors that fought with Sunblades – magically enchanted swords with elongated hilts that glowed bright green when malevolence was about, as well as several other powerful dweomers known only to those that had suffered their wrath, and only for as long as mercy allowed – this was never more than a few seconds. The back of the room was semispherical, with Shellihn’s throne mounted directly in the center up a small flight of marble stairs. He was a very powerful figure, humble as it were, but he did not trust Forygia.
She kneeled before him on the platform several steps below his throne. He was not sitting upon it, but rather, pacing.
“My Lord.”
“Seldras has sent the news. It arrived by owl carrier early this morning.”
A tinge of jealousy spun about Forygia. Shellihn caught it all.
“Are we alright with this, Forygia, High Druid of Sylael?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
The Lord of the Elves was not crowned so without years of service to the elven community. Shellihn had been the High Druid of Verian before Forygia had taken his place as he advanced to the throne; in fact, he had seen a full Season over Gerriallil (making him thus ten years older, since the Season of Songs happens only in this timeframe), though he had not succumbed to the same quasi-senile fate as his old friend.
Being as venerable as he was also made him as powerful a spellcaster as any headmaster of any school of the arcane arts, and certainly moreso than any other spellcaster in employment anywhere (battlemages in gladiator arenas, warmages in armies, and spellwarders, to name a few, boasted no challenge to the High Lord); of course, his craft was considered exotic, so in ways, he had advantages that such magic-users could only dream about.
“Good. Then what news do you bring me?”
“I only wish to seek your council, my Lord.”
“My council regarding the birth of this child and the birth to come, I presume?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Forygia was quick to respond to this but had no idea what ‘birth to come’ Shellihn was referring to. Another, greater tinge of jealousy swam in Forygia’s blood.
“I pace because as of yet, my thoughts have not come through to comprehend this. I have seen thirty-four Seasons of Song, High Druid, and yet never in that time has something of this magnitude happened. The people demand an explanation, and I can tell them nothing. I have my best diviners attempting communications with whatever Gods will hear our pleas for answers, but that is truly all I can do.” He continued pacing a moment longer, and then stopped and turned to her, “and why do I tell you this? Regardless of whatever talents you possess as a High Druid, you are not yet in a position to seek my council. There is nothing more I can tell you, Forygia.”
Something snapped in Forygia then, only for but a moment, because the Sunblades of the nearest six guards along the columns flashed only for a moment, springing to life the statuesque regiment with prying eyes about the room. “Thank you, my Lord.” She rose from the kneel, her glittery robes trailing behind her along the floor, and stopped for a moment before the first set of guards, who were still prone and ready for action. As if on cue, all of the Elven Elite snapped their Sunblades up and then slammed them to the marble floor, sending a single harsh, echoing note about the room.
And Forygia continued on her way, heart in the utmost wrong place.
“Kai-Thul,” Shellihn whispered, so softly that even the closest Elven Elite with their keen ears were none the wiser.
Water began to condensate upon the throne just behind the head of Shellihn, so rapidly that within seconds it had formed a translucent face with eyes as blue as the ocean. Shellihn had only to whisper to the doppelganger’s puppet.
“Follow her. Make sure we know where she’s going.”
As noiselessly as it had come, the face became a puff of vapor that disappeared into the marble rafters of the Lord of the Elves’s chamber.
Once out of sight, Shellihn sighed. He hated that it had come to this. And even moreso, he feared for that which was both ahead of him, and behind him.
Two months later, from the front door of Ialanis’ and Arieanna’s house, Seldras once again came forth, announcing the birth of a baby girl, perfectly healthy. She was also perfectly silent, as Shaelildrian was. A second child of no tears, just fascination at the very things that all people take for granted. The citizens of Dainshire became even more engrossed in the mystery; how were these children being born? Seldras thought he knew; but demigods were a rare sight, let alone to come so close to civilization. He would surely sense such presence; how could this be?
Seldras had been in extremely close contact with Archillea and Doradus as to Shaelildrian’s health, condition, and development. He was, as of yet, an average child. Maybe a conspiracy was afoot. The child had no special abilities. Alas, two months was too soon to tell, but Seldras’ mind was corrupted by this being; a seed had been planted by Gerriallil’s warnings months ago, and it had sprouted to a tree, each leaf another worry.
When Archillea brought Shaelildrian to see Alenea (children birthed of the same generation were raised among each other, to nurture social development), something happened. The pair, one just over two months old, the other, only a little over a day, stationed in a well-crafted crib, stared at each other, eyes wide. It was as though they found one another to be the greatest wonders of the world. Upon this breaking of contact, the two children began to wail. The mothers could not calm their children except to bring them to the same presence. Ialanis immediately rushed to see Seldras and brought the High Druid back to witness the event himself.
Upon arrival, the two prodigal infants were seen sleeping with one another in the crib. Archillea decided that it would be enough and carefully took Shaelildrian from Alenea’s side. The child became squeamish for a moment but soon regained composure in sleep. Seldras frowned at having been disturbed and Ialanis left to walk him back to his roost.
Upon Alenea’s awakening, Arieanna expected the worst; fortunately, the child made not a sound. Arieanna felt a staggering relief, but couldn’t help wondering what had triggered the outburst of emotion in the first place.
And then happened the first sign of many terrors to come for Arieanna.
The crib that Alenea was in had a small mobile, a carousel of brightly coloured animals, carved by her father; Alenea’s gaze wandered upon it and it began turning. A slow, steady, cool breeze ran by Arieanna and she noticed the mobile. Her breath ran out.
The breeze was unnatural. The mobile was spinning from some other force. Arieanna slowly moved out of the room and then began breathing again, rapidly, with fear. The child, born yesterday, was learning magic. The child, born yesterday, was learning magic. Either that, or an awful prank. But whom? Seldras was the only known magic-user in the entirety of the village. The only one present, anyhow; one of the other elvish families in the town had a child born the season before last who was in attendance at one of the arcane institutions, but the boy would not be back for many months, still.
In a village of Dainshire’s size, a magic-user would have to instead move on to the city of Varian for training; when they became talented, Sylael, or a human city. As it was with all fighters and mages. None stayed. This meant that, in the event that Alanea was in fact the culprit behind the mobile’s rotation, neither would Alenea. In silent contemplation, Arieanna thought about this. It wouldn’t be so bad. And then her thoughts rewound back over their old quarrels.
How could she conceive? It was far from the Season of Songs. Nothing made sense, and facts mixed with possibility whirled about her with such mental rapidity as to force her to her knees, in tears.
“Arieanna?” Ialanis had returned. “Arieanna?”
“I’m in here.”
Ialanis stood in the wooden doorframe, which was carved beautifully with swirling oak wood, then rushed to the aid of his wife, “why have you fallen? Are you alright?”
“Did you not see our daughter?”
Ialanis helped Arieanna to her feet and the two stepped into the next room, were Alenea’s crib was.
The mobile had completely stopped moving. All that was left was a gurgling baby, waiting to have an after-nap snack.
“What is it, Arieanna?”
She hesitated.
“Arieanna?”
“Nothing,” she looked at her husband and smiled softly, “nothing at all.”
Chapter Two – The Season of Songs
Seven years passed. The mysteries surrounding the births of both children, despite many types of council with between the High Druids and even the Lord, remained unsolved, but the pressures surrounding the answers had ceased considerably.
Arieanna had no need to confess her daughter’s powers to her husband – he found out soon enough. Ialanis was docile about it, considering all that had happened involving the conception; there was no sense in worrying about whether or not Arieanna was finding love in another man’s arms; throughout his wife’s pregnancy, it had never been a concern. Arieanna couldn’t possibly cheat. And why would she?
Ialanis was the village bowyer, and the only one of repute within fifty miles. Humans and elves and even some dwarves came to have bows crafted. He provided a lovely life for himself and his wife, and they possessed one of the greatest estates in Dainshire. Bowcrafting was an art to Ialanis; it also served to distract him from the worries of having a child that may or may not be legitimate.
Shaelildrian and Alanea were the only two of the nearest generation; the only child born in the Season of Songs prior, Naeanin, was rarely seen. It was rumoured that she was privately tutored. And so Shaelildrian and Alanea grew together. They learned to read and write together, and even practiced swordfighting together. Shaelildrian always won, except when he let Alanea have the honours. The two were an excellent dueling pair.
They also had practiced extensively with junior bows that Ialanis had made for them. In that, Shaelildrian had never lost to Alanea. Of course, it was never a competition, but Shae was always closer to the target than his friend. Always. In truth, he loved is bow as his most valued possession. He had named it Flicker.
At his age, Shaelildrian was the farthest thing from a prodigy of any kind. His skin was as fair as his mother’s, his eyes, green, like his father, and his hair a golden brown that ran down just past his shoulders. All in all, he was – well, normal. That is, except for his shooting skills, to which he often received a watcher or two. He was by no means perfect, but he was, it seemed, quite talented for his size.
As for Alanea, a beautiful young elven girl with shorter-than average ears (the points came out just past the end of her skull), big, bright green eyes and fiery red hair around the same length as Shaelildrian’s, her capabilities seemed to slip as she grew, and as of her fourth year, had stopped altogether. The secret had been kept safe, much to the relief of Ialanis and Arieanna.
The Season of Songs came when they were seven. The town was aflutter with activity; lanterns, lights, dancing, music, wonder. The pre-generation, now just under twenty, were all back from their respective schools; elven children leave soon after their tenth birthday to pursue their arts. Most did not have the time to return during their educational tenures, so the Season of Songs was a time of wondrous reunion.
Those that had returned were engaged in marvelous activities – two woodcraftsmen whittled so quickly that it seemed almost as if the wood were smoking chips. When they both finished, they held up beautifully carved dolls, and the older generations roared in glee. There was also a swordsman who had taken to fighting against his father, one of the town guards, in an improvised ring. The swords smashed against each other and rang out with the rise and fall of the crowd. The child of magical prowess had chosen to craft through the element of water, and rose it magnificently from an urn placed on the ground, forming intricate shapes to impress the adults and animals to dazzle the elders. Shaelildrian was rushed through this fair by his father to the foot of Seldras’s tree, where Alanea was already waiting.
“Remember, Shae, what we talked about.”
Several days prior to the Season of Songs, Shaelildrian and his father had sat down and discussed potential career paths for Shae to take. Shaelildrian had been distracted by a bug on the windowsill and hadn’t paid all that much attention to the lecture. He gulped a little as he approached the High Druid.
Seldras took the children, cradled them in roots and brought them up to his home. They were the first visitors to Seldras’ house in many years, for children only come once to such a place, as eternal tradition dictates.
Upon the first Season of Songs that an elven child comes of age to, the day of the Festival of Songs, the children born in the last Season are sent for a private ceremony with their town’s respective High Druid (while the adults attend private ceremonies of their own) to become initiated into the elven clan and to dedicate themselves to a craft for the rest of their lives; the protectoral duties of the High Druids also included finding suitable registrations for such children.
It was a tradition in Elvish culture to, at a young age, decide what craft was best to be followed, in order to pursue the dexterous movements and meticulous artistic merits that elves are known for. If started young, the craft could be agelessly perfected.
Elves made excellent mercenaries throughout the lands for these reasons, often recruited as protectors of powerful diplomatic influences and mages. Elves were also excellent assassins, due to their natural affinity for stealth and balance, though it was uncommon for an elf to have such a negative demeanor towards other living things. This, combined with their excellent hearing and sight, also made them excellent spies; indeed, wars had been won and lost based on who was really in a room at a given time.
Alas, Elves also had a knack for wooden craftsmanship, far superior in quality and appearance to the humans, though there was something to be said for the industriousness of the construction; because everything had to be perfect, the process took far longer. Regarding bows and their bowyers, as Ialanis was, there were none finer than elvish fletchers in the entire known world.
Shaelildrian could not help but giggle as the root lifted him, whereas Alanea gripped the root that took her for dear life, looking down the entire time. Her bright green eyes had a flair of terror within them, which Shaelildrian noticed with an all-to-familiar sigh. When the roots reached the right level, the High Druid stood waiting. Shaelildrian hopped off and then assisted Alanea.
Seldras awaited them, a stern look on his always-scowling face. As soon as they were placed on the deck of the High Druid’s house, Seldras began walking around the deck, which ran in a planetary loop around the behemoth. When he got to the other side, with the kids in tail, another root emerged. Seldras motioned a hand and the children both climbed upon the magical elevator. The High Druid cast a very small incantation upon the children as their backs were turned; his home’s location was a well-guarded secret, and he couldn’t have them remembering this particular secret. Seldras followed them on and they were lowered to the true entrance of Seldras’ domain.
Upon entering, Shaelildrian felt a scintillating feeling coursing through his body, as though every vein within him had chilled over without a temperature change, and everything tingled. His breathing became laboured on inhaling and he felt no exhalation, though he knew the function was taking place. He edged his eyes to Alanea and saw that she was experiencing the same faults; her mouth hung somewhat slack due to the breathing problem.
“You’ll get used to that,” Seldras said, walking through a doorway and out of sight in a darkened room. Seldras knew the effects that anti-magical fields had on people; the first several times one experiences the entry of these powerful enchantments are not always pleasant. Some form of creaking emanated all around the room and the two looked behind them to see that the door was re-growing itself. They took hands in a mutual attempt to quell their fear of this place and moved into the room.
Elves were all born with an affinity to see in the dark to some degree; most could make out objects within ten feet of them; this came in handy as they followed the High Druid.
And there stood before them Seldras, accompanied by another child; Naeanin. Her blood was blue, and her hair, dark. Her eyes were dark, as well, making her face appear almost skeletal. Her lips seemed as though they had not smiled in years, and her skin as though she had rarely seen the sun. Because she was several years older, she was slightly taller than Shaelildrian, and substantially so over Alanea.
“You know Naeanin, don’t you, children?”
Shaelildrian and Alanea nodded slowly, unsure of whether or not to make pleasantries.
“Good. Then it’s time to get underway. Please, take a seat.”
Seldras moved to the back of the room, where there was a pedestal with a sheet draped over a spherical object. He whipped the sheet off, revealing an orb that glowed gently against the darkness of the room. Shaelildrian took the moment of light to look around, as his eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.
This room was much more ovular in shape than the last, like an egg, with strange glittering runes and markings lining the left and right walls, and a similar effect coming from the ceiling. The pedestal with the orb was on one side, and a long bench stretched nearly to the end of the room right by Shaelildrian’s feet took up most of the other side. The center of the room was bare, and spiraled inward against the wooden floor.
Naeanin took her seat in the middle, forcing Shaelildrian and Alanea apart.
Seldras spoke, his tone no longer stern, but grave. “Understand, children, that this ritual is ancient. You will speak to the spirit of a True Elf, as every generation has before you.”
Seldras began to speak in a deep tongue, unknown to the children. It flowed like lava from a river, almost sinister to the ear, burning, but at the same time, smooth, so smooth as to relieve the anxious children. He stopped after a moment, and then stared at the three. His stern voice seemed to fade and ripple as he spoke, as though he had become an entirely different force.
“Do you understand why you are here?” His voice had taken on the tone of a partly-submerged alligator. Shaelildrian and Alanea shook their heads, taken aback by the strange adjustment in his voice. Naeanin did not move, but only stared with resolute intentions on whatever cause had brought them there. Obviously, someone had told her about this ceremony.
“You are here to learn the history of our people, and seek your path among them. Your parents were here sitting before me long before you saw the earth’s light, and their grandparents before them, and so on. You are all linked to the earth through a deeper understanding than any specie on this earth, and the earth, in turn, will respect you, and love you. This is why we elves sometimes become druids. But there are many paths a young elf can take. Before you choose which path you walk on, you must understand why you are, how you are, and why you came to be.
“The elves once populated the entire continent of Veras, spreading far across the land their seeds of verdant life and prosperous growth, save in the desolate wastelands to the south, where the orcs roam free, and farther beyond, where only the bravest go to tame the mighty creatures on the dunes and in the oases of Evertide. These were in the days when forests were sacred to all the creatures that came upon them. The elves lived peacefully among one another, setting up garrisons for miles along the mountainous borders between elf and orc. They were hardly in conflict; their chaotic orcish minds overthrew them and their colonies would never form under one bloody banner to attack the elves. And so, they knew to avoid the land where the lushness grew. They still know this.
“Then humans from the realm of Golstolme across the sea came upon the shore and founded the port city of Polimoore, on the western edge of Veras. They tore down many trees that day, and in the passing weeks. With every branch they tore and every plank they sowed for their houses, the elvish hatred grew.
“The elves eventually fought back against the destruction of their beloved earth. They fought hard, and well, and at first slaughtered all who opposed, except the women and children, and the sea captain who had brought them there. The humans left the half-constructed Polimoore behind and retreated, and the elves burned it to the ground as they did, so the humans could watch the smoke rise as they sailed back home.
“The elves did not attempt any communication with the humans, and they should have, though translators were unheard of. The humans simply regarded the graceful, noble elven race as a pack of savages. One ship sailed away. Two months later, ten ships a hundred times over returned. The vast continent of Veras was easy enough to find – the legend says that the fires of Polimoore still burned, and the smoke guided the ships to shore.
“Never before had an army been seen upon Veras. The elves certainly didn’t have one, just the orc guard, a shifting regiment of craftsmen assigned to a month’s work out of the year. The militia that had fully disposed of the pioneers was not prepared for any sort of army. Skilled though the elves were with swordplay and bowmanship, it was said that there were more human soldiers on the continent than there were arrows to slay them all. And so it was that the elves were ravaged.”
The magical orb through which Seldras channeled his voice suddenly lit up, and a cartographic image came upon it of Veras, in a shade of mostly green, with the black south of the orc territory; it showed a red flame spread across the land, a pandemic of war that blanketed half of the map before stopping.
“The Lord of the Elves at the time, Demenith, walked directly up to their army, single-handedly. He approached their general, one named Sir Gregorios, and soldiers moved aside, weapons drawn and pointed to slay the Lord. He reached down to the earth, scooped a handful of dirt and then germinated it with ancient druidic magic. A flower grew before their eyes and the restless soldiers around Sir Gregorios grew hush. Demenith offered the flower to Sir Gregorios in one hand, and drew a knife to his own neck with the other.
“The human understood the message and then called the army back. Many of the ships left, but Sir Gregorios and a handful of his men stayed behind, unarmed and in the custody of Demenith. They began to explore elvish culture, and though a long time it did take, the humans began to communicate, and convey that humans were not so different.
“A new, larger group of settlers came, and from the ashes rose a new Polimoore. Through the actions of Sir Gregorios and Demenith, the humans and the elves came to coexist. The land was not divided, but shared. We learned their language, and they taught us their industry. But the old ways of the elves have not been forgotten.”
The orb shifted once more, and the land became green again, speckled with patches of blue, this time.
“To regard the dwarves and gnomes is impossible. Few elves wander up the mountains that divide us from the orcs, and fewer still enter the caves upon the mountains and live to tell tales. When the humans arrived, channels of trade opened outward to the dwarves, and then later, the gnomes. The gnomes made their homes high upon the mountains, and the dwarves within them. Only the God of Time would know how long they have existed here for.
“The elves are a proud race, but you must never forget that it is the humans you are indebted to. Someday, your assistance will be needed, and though all save the most scholarly scholars among their kind will know that debt which we owe. To the humans, no matter how you feel of them, we owe life and meaning. It is a valuable lesson to remember this.
“The place you choose in this world is your definition. Everything has purpose. Gregorios knew this and spared us as such. The time has come for you three to select your place in this world, which will control the rest of your lives.”
Shaelildrian and Alanea both had a moment in which they were frozen.
In truth, both Shaelildrian and Alanea had spoken to their parents; the entire situation seemed almost made-up. Children normally don’t start such planning until they turn nine. Elves develop great senses of maturity at a young age, though their sense of play never diminishes at any point in their lives. Shaelildrian and Alanea were both a little baffled by the situation – in truth, the only training either had received was in that of swordplay and bowmanship with one another, and the professions of their parents – fletching for Alanea, woodworking for Shae.
Shaelildrian remembered his parents questioning him on these matters frequently. He had dismissed it most often as a joke, but now grasped desperately at the cords of his memory where a recollection of his decision should have been. The pit of his stomach was queasy and his head was spinning – guilt struck him, then, a pendulum stroking a new chord upon his every heartbeat. He had no true fear of any elf, for all treated him with kind regard, and even though Seldras’ glare was mighty and feared by more than a few of the villagers, Shaelildrian saw no reason to fear him. He was unfazed by the looks he was getting.
“What is your place?”
Seldras, or whatever controlled Seldras, looked first at Alanea. She was taken aback, as though her heart had frozen and her blood had run cold, and almost teetered off of the back of the seat. She gripped, and then looked fearfully up to Seldras, who stood waiting patiently.
“I know not.” Her voice was timid.
“What?” Commanded the strange voice once again.
“I know not!”
Seldras’s head shifted to the right. “And you?”
“Sorcery.” Naeanin’s voice was as cool as the deep, throaty voice that gripped Seldras. Immediately, the orb before the High Druid glowed brightly, only for a moment. The force of light caused Shaelildrian and Alanea to shield their eyes. The force brimmed red for a moment before returning to its earthly green glow.
“Very good.” Seldras cracked a small, perturbing smile. “And you?” His head snapped again.
Shaelildrian had not been expecting such a thing. He hesitated.
“Well?”
“I too know not.”
“You should already know your place.” This was not Seldras. Seldras was a grouch, it was said, and widely reputed so, but this was truly not him. There was no patience, tolerance, or wisdom in his eyes. Only madness.
“I have not yet ex – explored the possibilities!”
Seldras stared hard. “You know of what others do in this village, yes?”
“Yes, High Druid.”
Seldras tried his hands at patience, “Well, you are younger than most,” he reasoned, “which is the most pleasing to you?”
“I don’t know.”
The spirit within Seldras only glared.
“Then there are things you shall need to learn on your own time. Regrettably, such professions must be selected within the confines of ceremony.”
“Why?” asked Shaelildrian.
“It is tradition.”
“But why?” Shaelildrian’s confusion was evidently increasing the scowl on Seldras’ wizened brow.
“It has always been this way. It has never been undone. Do you dare defy tradition?”
Shaelildrian was silent.
The spirit interpreted the response from Shaelildrian as not courage in the face of a frightening thing, but as insolence in the face of authority. He surged forward and grabbed Shaelildrian by the tunic, lifting him off of the ground. The energies that flowed through him channeled into his hands and then slipped past Shaelildrian’s minimal defenses to the magical arts. The child began thrashing for only a moment before his body went limp, the muscles still convulsing as though he had been jolted by electricity.
Alanea wanted to scream, but instead chose to rise to her feet and pound her fist into the side of Seldras’ robes. “Stop it! Stop it!” Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Naeanin looked on, her dark eyes even smaller slits than usual, a small grin parted on her lips, as if she were enjoying this torture. She looked more unlike an elf than anything, like some darker creature, as though she could blanket the sun with a gaze.
Alanea did not notice this. She continued to rap into Seldras’ robes, until Seldras finally paid her some mind and released Shaelildrian, sending him crumpled onto the ground. “Shae!” She dropped to her knees, then looked back up at Seldras, teary-eyed, “How could you? How could you?”
Seldras grimaced, then held a hand forward again, palm facing Alanea. She squealed and then fell back on her hands and butt, horrified. The palm did not move from its fixed point. Moments later, Shae began once again to stir. Seldras had used his powers as a punishment, and then felt he had righted things by using a healing spell.
“Well, child?”
Shaelildrian only panted, still winded. He broke out into a cold sweat.
“Well?” Seldras went to put another hand upon Shaelildrian, his murky voice more terrifying to the children than ever.
Naeanin rose, anxious to see what pain would be inflicted next; Alanea felt something bubble up inside her, some foreign energy. The light, tingling feeling caused by the room ceased and was replaced by a cool, coruscating feeling around her body. Something clicked in Seldras, because he took immediate notice of the energy build in the room and looked straight at Alanea, stunned. Children should not possess such fields of energy; when people do, the fields should always be present, not rising and falling like the ocean’s current, like this child of only seven winters. And then the winds of a typhoon kicked into the room.
“Child –”
The room went dark. Naeanin leaped up and cowered away from the winds behind the sphere, which now swirled within in a smoky gray heaving mass. Occasionally, the core of the mass would ignite in a bright light that faltered away quickly, like a muted thunderstorm. This was the only light in the room. The current picked up and picked Seldras up by the feet, dragging him several feet away from Shae’s still-troubled body. The essence of Alanea was altered for a moment, the sweet face of an innocent girl heeding to the face of a powerful woman within, lunging like a black wolf of air into the heart of the one who hurt her whenever the light hit her. “Stay back!”
Seldras was pushed into the wall of the room, his head twisted to the side in the force of the wind, trying to keep his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from losing his grip. He thought. And a thought was all it took.
The High Druid’s house was well-guarded by a series of small channels that opened into each room through a small wooden slit on the ceiling – within the miniscule passages (so small that Shaelildrian's fingers would barely be able to poke in) lay the best protection against intruders a High Druid could have, creatures so diminutive and dangerous that, while having the power to incarcerate an adult, children would likely be killed; drae wasps, as they were known, were a wild insect rarely seen and thought extirpated by ways of magic and common law. Druids, of course, had stacks of the insects, and knew just the incantations to gain the trust of the nest’s queen.
The drae wasps began to file into the room, washed around by the whirlwind current that swept abroad the circular edifice.
[hunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunter –] a thousand voices in one, all monotone, all shallow.
Shaelildrian’s ears perked, though he was not sure why, nor was he conscious enough to reason it.
“Leave him alone –” the innocence in Alanea stumbled over the words, having to shout over the whipping winds still circling the room. “–sir!”
Out of nowhere, Naeanin followed the path of the current around and into Alanea, tackling the smaller girl hard to the ground and sending the winds into a breeze, and then into nothing by the time that everything had been sorted out. The orb once again shifted green, but the ceiling was not the same any longer – rather, it had been speckled with black dots, black dots that moved, and buzzed, and wanted to bring pain. Hungry black dots.
The two girls tussled for a moment before Seldras rushed over and tore them apart by the backs of their clothes. He held Naeanin aside and then moved forward with Alanea. “Alanea, I want you to do something for me.” Seldras spoke calmly, but quickly, as though there were a secret abroad he had little time to tell of. Whatever spirits had haunted the elder previously were gone, and he seemed back to normal, though his bitter grimace was one of fear and intensity instead. “Speak to this orb. Speak the word ‘sorcery’. Can you do that for me, please?”
Alanea shot a glance to Naeanin, whose dark and sullen eyes had been shifted away by the tilting-back of her head, revealing their true intensity in malevolent form. “With her?”
“Just say it! Be quick.”
After a moment’s hesitation, followed by a sigh of anguish, she spoke. “Sorcery.”
“Good,” Seldras looked to the two girls. “Get out of here. Walk slowly. Meet me in the main room in just a moment. Go.” He edged Alanea off with a shove and then quickly moved to Shaelildrian’s side. The orb, in the meantime, flashed a speck of bright yellow, and then went back to the verdant green it had been.
“Is he going to be okay?” Alanea asked, looking at Shaelildrian.
“Yes, he’s going to –” the buzzing became a roar as Seldras had spoken – his voice had been raised. Sure enough, a mass of whizzing black particles orbited the upper half of the room, descending slowly along their circular track. If they reached the level of Shaelildrian and Seldras, no amount of control that the High Druid had over the queen – nor any amount of control the queen had over her minions – would save them.
[HUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTER]
The druid quickly incanted a few words, but Shaelildrian’s eyes were already shot open. He could hear what the others could not. Seldras gripped the boy’s shoulders and spoke quickly. “Child, these creatures will kill us. They know no mercy. We must get out of here. They will kill everything until the room has been cleansed, starting at the top and working their way down. It is the method of the drae wasp. We must leave, now. Crawl with me toward the exit.”
Shaelildrian, still groggy, said, “tradition,” his attention span still straight above his head, watching the dancing and twirling, dancing and twirling, the dance of death, a mere three feet from the floor.
“You’ve not picked! We must go!”
[HUNTERHUNTERHUNTER]
Shaelildrian was so dizzy, it was as though the room were spinning and the enraged insects were stationary. He said the only thing that could come to him. “Hunter?” The orb pitched again from green, this time with a flash of light so bright, that the insects immediately shot skyward, clinging to the roof, with many retreating back into the narrow crack whence they came.
Seldras, still gripping Shaelildrian, looked into the boy’s tired eyes with disbelief and disappointment. No. It cannot be. A child with such promise… a hunter? He had shown no real promise, but – great expectations, great things… the Foretell… he let go of his grip, and put his hand up once more; the beasts in the rage of the spell would attack, but now, once again passive, they would return to their hives. Surely enough, they re-entered their catacombs within the great tree of the High Druid. Seldras got up, brushed himself off, and went out to the girls.
“It has been done.”
Alanea took a step forward, but Seldras shot a hand out. Whatever power the child of Arieanna and Ialanis possessed, it was not something she had learned to harness – but at least she knew it was hers. Regardless, she submitted passively to the outstretched palm. She hesitated a moment, her eyes flitting between the ground and Seldras’ face, which looked more troubled than stern now, but was nevertheless strikingly awful. And, given her recent offense (though she wasn’t sure how closely she was related), she decided it best not to pursue too far, “how is Shae?”
“Fine. He’s fine,” Seldras turned back to go and get Shae.
“Did he pick?” Seldras whirled and opened his mouth to impatiently tell Alanea to be silent, but it had been Naeanin who spoke. He snapped his mouth shut – while he did not want to hear her or anyone else talk, Naeanin’s family held far too much power in the elven community for Seldras to risk shouting at her. Judging by the smug look on Naeanin’s face, this fact had been bred into her. She knew her place of power. She would go to all the best schools, have all the best professors, all the best sorcerous equipment – but it was easy to see why she was jealous of both Shaelildrian and Alanea; whilst she had the opportunity of a child who could have anything she wanted, these things were material. The gifts of Alanea were now obvious beyond her family, and likely to grow in power; whatever Naeanin received would be a large leap (a well-endowed magical robe was, to a lordly sorcerer, a lifesaver, at times), but that would be the extent of it. Who knew what the daughter of a bowyer could achieve? Naeanin was not kept in the dark regarding children being born of demigods; no amount of money could wish that. She would always be dark to them. Always.
“Yes. He did. Hunter.” He spoke the last word with such contempt as to make even the snotty Naeanin grit her teeth. Shaelildrian appeared in the doorway, looking pale and holding his weight against the circular frame with a shaky arm.
“Stand here, children.” Seldras motioned all of the children into the same part of the room, and then began intricately twisting his hands and gutturally incanting. His eyes drew back and then, to all four in the room, the world shot forward, and then back again, as though time had heaved on itself.
Shaelildrian, Alanea and Naeanin were suddenly very tired.
“Okay, children. You may go. The leafroot awaits.” Seldras spoke quietly, almost soothingly. It came as a relief to all three. The bark that had grown over the door melted back with a grinding series of crunches, and the root once again came forward at their feet, with a large leaf atop it. They stepped on, with Alanea grasping to Shae and Naeanin taking to the other side, staring contemptuously down into his eyes. He made sure not to look back.
The root slowly lowered to the ground.
Seldras watched it go at first, then closed the bark door again and went into the altar room to once again cover the orb. Within the confines of its smooth, smoky interior, there was a large black lotus that appeared for only a moment before being sucked into the center of the orb, out of sight, as though it had never been there. Seldras tossed the cloth over and grit his own teeth, for once.
When the root reached the ground, there stood Arieanna and Ialanis, Archillea and Doradus, and an emissary bearing a black cloak with a red flute crocheted on it – the symbol of the Windsongs. Alanea held her arms out and was grabbed and held aloft by her father before the leafroot had touched the ground. Shaelildrian hopped off by himself, and Naeanin waited for the root to reach the ground before stepping off, one hand out to her emissary.
“Yours, Ms. Windsong.”
“Let us go home.” Naeanin briefly scanned the adults, bearing a self-righteous and complacent grin. And without a word, she walked away briskly, her servant in pursuit.
When she was gone, it was Arieanna, certainly the most cheery of the three remaining females, spoke first, “well, how was it?”
The two children looked at each other, sorrowfully, then back to the adults, who all smiled gently. Shaelildrian spoke. “It was fine.”
“And you’ve selected, yes?”
Two nods, and a moment of silence.
Ialanis, feeling a knot of anxiety and a bubble of laughter almost coming through and making him drop his daughter, looked right into her eyes, “Well? What were your decisions?”
Alanea, feeling the warmth of her father, brightened immediately and said, “Sorcery!”
Ialanis and Arieanna’s eyes both glinted – that would be a very expensive procedure, getting her put through that kind of school. Even the least expensive of such institutions were well beyond the price range of the two. “Well, dear, we’ll see what we can do for you, then.”
“How about you, Shae, dear?” Archillea leaned down and kissed her son gently on the forehead, her arm around his shoulder.
“I – I –” Shae started, “I don’t remember.”
He received five separate glances.
It was Doradus who spoke, a slight tremble in his voice. “What?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t know if I said anything.”
“Don’t you remember our talks?” The Terrasils had told Shae that, because of his extensive studies in swordplay, he should make a move towards an army position; Shae had never shown any real prowess at woodworking; his only real interests seem to lie with the blade and arrow.
In truth, Shaelildrian didn’t remember ever speaking with his father at that moment.
“Ow –”
“How can you no longer remember –”
“Hunter, Shae, hunter!” Said Alanea, interrupting Doradus’ yelling. “Shae picked hunter. Seldras told us.”
A silent sigh of relief came from all, especially Shaelildrian.
“He told us.”
“Hunter. Very good, son. Very good.” Doradus rested a shaky hand atop Shaelildrian’s shoulder. A hunter? A hunter? Shaelildrian’s life was a rot, now. The hunters of any village were lower-class citizens, slobs, and not well-respected at all. They were dropouts from all degrees, masters of nothing. They were village gatherers, of no high regard whatsoever. Alas, the decision had been made, and so it was. The child of a thousand worries, of ill-found birth, of controversy and discord, was to be one of the lowest-possible members of society. Even the best hunters were not so highly regarded. A life of rot.
Arieanna had no need to confess her daughter’s powers to her husband – he found out soon enough. Ialanis was docile about it, considering all that had happened involving the conception; there was no sense in worrying about whether or not Arieanna was finding love in another man’s arms; throughout his wife’s pregnancy, it had never been a concern. Arieanna couldn’t possibly cheat. And why would she?
Ialanis was the village bowyer, and the only one of repute within fifty miles. Humans and elves and even some dwarves came to have bows crafted. He provided a lovely life for himself and his wife, and they possessed one of the greatest estates in Dainshire. Bowcrafting was an art to Ialanis; it also served to distract him from the worries of having a child that may or may not be legitimate.
Shaelildrian and Alanea were the only two of the nearest generation; the only child born in the Season of Songs prior, Naeanin, was rarely seen. It was rumoured that she was privately tutored. And so Shaelildrian and Alanea grew together. They learned to read and write together, and even practiced swordfighting together. Shaelildrian always won, except when he let Alanea have the honours. The two were an excellent dueling pair.
They also had practiced extensively with junior bows that Ialanis had made for them. In that, Shaelildrian had never lost to Alanea. Of course, it was never a competition, but Shae was always closer to the target than his friend. Always. In truth, he loved is bow as his most valued possession. He had named it Flicker.
At his age, Shaelildrian was the farthest thing from a prodigy of any kind. His skin was as fair as his mother’s, his eyes, green, like his father, and his hair a golden brown that ran down just past his shoulders. All in all, he was – well, normal. That is, except for his shooting skills, to which he often received a watcher or two. He was by no means perfect, but he was, it seemed, quite talented for his size.
As for Alanea, a beautiful young elven girl with shorter-than average ears (the points came out just past the end of her skull), big, bright green eyes and fiery red hair around the same length as Shaelildrian’s, her capabilities seemed to slip as she grew, and as of her fourth year, had stopped altogether. The secret had been kept safe, much to the relief of Ialanis and Arieanna.
The Season of Songs came when they were seven. The town was aflutter with activity; lanterns, lights, dancing, music, wonder. The pre-generation, now just under twenty, were all back from their respective schools; elven children leave soon after their tenth birthday to pursue their arts. Most did not have the time to return during their educational tenures, so the Season of Songs was a time of wondrous reunion.
Those that had returned were engaged in marvelous activities – two woodcraftsmen whittled so quickly that it seemed almost as if the wood were smoking chips. When they both finished, they held up beautifully carved dolls, and the older generations roared in glee. There was also a swordsman who had taken to fighting against his father, one of the town guards, in an improvised ring. The swords smashed against each other and rang out with the rise and fall of the crowd. The child of magical prowess had chosen to craft through the element of water, and rose it magnificently from an urn placed on the ground, forming intricate shapes to impress the adults and animals to dazzle the elders. Shaelildrian was rushed through this fair by his father to the foot of Seldras’s tree, where Alanea was already waiting.
“Remember, Shae, what we talked about.”
Several days prior to the Season of Songs, Shaelildrian and his father had sat down and discussed potential career paths for Shae to take. Shaelildrian had been distracted by a bug on the windowsill and hadn’t paid all that much attention to the lecture. He gulped a little as he approached the High Druid.
Seldras took the children, cradled them in roots and brought them up to his home. They were the first visitors to Seldras’ house in many years, for children only come once to such a place, as eternal tradition dictates.
Upon the first Season of Songs that an elven child comes of age to, the day of the Festival of Songs, the children born in the last Season are sent for a private ceremony with their town’s respective High Druid (while the adults attend private ceremonies of their own) to become initiated into the elven clan and to dedicate themselves to a craft for the rest of their lives; the protectoral duties of the High Druids also included finding suitable registrations for such children.
It was a tradition in Elvish culture to, at a young age, decide what craft was best to be followed, in order to pursue the dexterous movements and meticulous artistic merits that elves are known for. If started young, the craft could be agelessly perfected.
Elves made excellent mercenaries throughout the lands for these reasons, often recruited as protectors of powerful diplomatic influences and mages. Elves were also excellent assassins, due to their natural affinity for stealth and balance, though it was uncommon for an elf to have such a negative demeanor towards other living things. This, combined with their excellent hearing and sight, also made them excellent spies; indeed, wars had been won and lost based on who was really in a room at a given time.
Alas, Elves also had a knack for wooden craftsmanship, far superior in quality and appearance to the humans, though there was something to be said for the industriousness of the construction; because everything had to be perfect, the process took far longer. Regarding bows and their bowyers, as Ialanis was, there were none finer than elvish fletchers in the entire known world.
Shaelildrian could not help but giggle as the root lifted him, whereas Alanea gripped the root that took her for dear life, looking down the entire time. Her bright green eyes had a flair of terror within them, which Shaelildrian noticed with an all-to-familiar sigh. When the roots reached the right level, the High Druid stood waiting. Shaelildrian hopped off and then assisted Alanea.
Seldras awaited them, a stern look on his always-scowling face. As soon as they were placed on the deck of the High Druid’s house, Seldras began walking around the deck, which ran in a planetary loop around the behemoth. When he got to the other side, with the kids in tail, another root emerged. Seldras motioned a hand and the children both climbed upon the magical elevator. The High Druid cast a very small incantation upon the children as their backs were turned; his home’s location was a well-guarded secret, and he couldn’t have them remembering this particular secret. Seldras followed them on and they were lowered to the true entrance of Seldras’ domain.
Upon entering, Shaelildrian felt a scintillating feeling coursing through his body, as though every vein within him had chilled over without a temperature change, and everything tingled. His breathing became laboured on inhaling and he felt no exhalation, though he knew the function was taking place. He edged his eyes to Alanea and saw that she was experiencing the same faults; her mouth hung somewhat slack due to the breathing problem.
“You’ll get used to that,” Seldras said, walking through a doorway and out of sight in a darkened room. Seldras knew the effects that anti-magical fields had on people; the first several times one experiences the entry of these powerful enchantments are not always pleasant. Some form of creaking emanated all around the room and the two looked behind them to see that the door was re-growing itself. They took hands in a mutual attempt to quell their fear of this place and moved into the room.
Elves were all born with an affinity to see in the dark to some degree; most could make out objects within ten feet of them; this came in handy as they followed the High Druid.
And there stood before them Seldras, accompanied by another child; Naeanin. Her blood was blue, and her hair, dark. Her eyes were dark, as well, making her face appear almost skeletal. Her lips seemed as though they had not smiled in years, and her skin as though she had rarely seen the sun. Because she was several years older, she was slightly taller than Shaelildrian, and substantially so over Alanea.
“You know Naeanin, don’t you, children?”
Shaelildrian and Alanea nodded slowly, unsure of whether or not to make pleasantries.
“Good. Then it’s time to get underway. Please, take a seat.”
Seldras moved to the back of the room, where there was a pedestal with a sheet draped over a spherical object. He whipped the sheet off, revealing an orb that glowed gently against the darkness of the room. Shaelildrian took the moment of light to look around, as his eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.
This room was much more ovular in shape than the last, like an egg, with strange glittering runes and markings lining the left and right walls, and a similar effect coming from the ceiling. The pedestal with the orb was on one side, and a long bench stretched nearly to the end of the room right by Shaelildrian’s feet took up most of the other side. The center of the room was bare, and spiraled inward against the wooden floor.
Naeanin took her seat in the middle, forcing Shaelildrian and Alanea apart.
Seldras spoke, his tone no longer stern, but grave. “Understand, children, that this ritual is ancient. You will speak to the spirit of a True Elf, as every generation has before you.”
Seldras began to speak in a deep tongue, unknown to the children. It flowed like lava from a river, almost sinister to the ear, burning, but at the same time, smooth, so smooth as to relieve the anxious children. He stopped after a moment, and then stared at the three. His stern voice seemed to fade and ripple as he spoke, as though he had become an entirely different force.
“Do you understand why you are here?” His voice had taken on the tone of a partly-submerged alligator. Shaelildrian and Alanea shook their heads, taken aback by the strange adjustment in his voice. Naeanin did not move, but only stared with resolute intentions on whatever cause had brought them there. Obviously, someone had told her about this ceremony.
“You are here to learn the history of our people, and seek your path among them. Your parents were here sitting before me long before you saw the earth’s light, and their grandparents before them, and so on. You are all linked to the earth through a deeper understanding than any specie on this earth, and the earth, in turn, will respect you, and love you. This is why we elves sometimes become druids. But there are many paths a young elf can take. Before you choose which path you walk on, you must understand why you are, how you are, and why you came to be.
“The elves once populated the entire continent of Veras, spreading far across the land their seeds of verdant life and prosperous growth, save in the desolate wastelands to the south, where the orcs roam free, and farther beyond, where only the bravest go to tame the mighty creatures on the dunes and in the oases of Evertide. These were in the days when forests were sacred to all the creatures that came upon them. The elves lived peacefully among one another, setting up garrisons for miles along the mountainous borders between elf and orc. They were hardly in conflict; their chaotic orcish minds overthrew them and their colonies would never form under one bloody banner to attack the elves. And so, they knew to avoid the land where the lushness grew. They still know this.
“Then humans from the realm of Golstolme across the sea came upon the shore and founded the port city of Polimoore, on the western edge of Veras. They tore down many trees that day, and in the passing weeks. With every branch they tore and every plank they sowed for their houses, the elvish hatred grew.
“The elves eventually fought back against the destruction of their beloved earth. They fought hard, and well, and at first slaughtered all who opposed, except the women and children, and the sea captain who had brought them there. The humans left the half-constructed Polimoore behind and retreated, and the elves burned it to the ground as they did, so the humans could watch the smoke rise as they sailed back home.
“The elves did not attempt any communication with the humans, and they should have, though translators were unheard of. The humans simply regarded the graceful, noble elven race as a pack of savages. One ship sailed away. Two months later, ten ships a hundred times over returned. The vast continent of Veras was easy enough to find – the legend says that the fires of Polimoore still burned, and the smoke guided the ships to shore.
“Never before had an army been seen upon Veras. The elves certainly didn’t have one, just the orc guard, a shifting regiment of craftsmen assigned to a month’s work out of the year. The militia that had fully disposed of the pioneers was not prepared for any sort of army. Skilled though the elves were with swordplay and bowmanship, it was said that there were more human soldiers on the continent than there were arrows to slay them all. And so it was that the elves were ravaged.”
The magical orb through which Seldras channeled his voice suddenly lit up, and a cartographic image came upon it of Veras, in a shade of mostly green, with the black south of the orc territory; it showed a red flame spread across the land, a pandemic of war that blanketed half of the map before stopping.
“The Lord of the Elves at the time, Demenith, walked directly up to their army, single-handedly. He approached their general, one named Sir Gregorios, and soldiers moved aside, weapons drawn and pointed to slay the Lord. He reached down to the earth, scooped a handful of dirt and then germinated it with ancient druidic magic. A flower grew before their eyes and the restless soldiers around Sir Gregorios grew hush. Demenith offered the flower to Sir Gregorios in one hand, and drew a knife to his own neck with the other.
“The human understood the message and then called the army back. Many of the ships left, but Sir Gregorios and a handful of his men stayed behind, unarmed and in the custody of Demenith. They began to explore elvish culture, and though a long time it did take, the humans began to communicate, and convey that humans were not so different.
“A new, larger group of settlers came, and from the ashes rose a new Polimoore. Through the actions of Sir Gregorios and Demenith, the humans and the elves came to coexist. The land was not divided, but shared. We learned their language, and they taught us their industry. But the old ways of the elves have not been forgotten.”
The orb shifted once more, and the land became green again, speckled with patches of blue, this time.
“To regard the dwarves and gnomes is impossible. Few elves wander up the mountains that divide us from the orcs, and fewer still enter the caves upon the mountains and live to tell tales. When the humans arrived, channels of trade opened outward to the dwarves, and then later, the gnomes. The gnomes made their homes high upon the mountains, and the dwarves within them. Only the God of Time would know how long they have existed here for.
“The elves are a proud race, but you must never forget that it is the humans you are indebted to. Someday, your assistance will be needed, and though all save the most scholarly scholars among their kind will know that debt which we owe. To the humans, no matter how you feel of them, we owe life and meaning. It is a valuable lesson to remember this.
“The place you choose in this world is your definition. Everything has purpose. Gregorios knew this and spared us as such. The time has come for you three to select your place in this world, which will control the rest of your lives.”
Shaelildrian and Alanea both had a moment in which they were frozen.
In truth, both Shaelildrian and Alanea had spoken to their parents; the entire situation seemed almost made-up. Children normally don’t start such planning until they turn nine. Elves develop great senses of maturity at a young age, though their sense of play never diminishes at any point in their lives. Shaelildrian and Alanea were both a little baffled by the situation – in truth, the only training either had received was in that of swordplay and bowmanship with one another, and the professions of their parents – fletching for Alanea, woodworking for Shae.
Shaelildrian remembered his parents questioning him on these matters frequently. He had dismissed it most often as a joke, but now grasped desperately at the cords of his memory where a recollection of his decision should have been. The pit of his stomach was queasy and his head was spinning – guilt struck him, then, a pendulum stroking a new chord upon his every heartbeat. He had no true fear of any elf, for all treated him with kind regard, and even though Seldras’ glare was mighty and feared by more than a few of the villagers, Shaelildrian saw no reason to fear him. He was unfazed by the looks he was getting.
“What is your place?”
Seldras, or whatever controlled Seldras, looked first at Alanea. She was taken aback, as though her heart had frozen and her blood had run cold, and almost teetered off of the back of the seat. She gripped, and then looked fearfully up to Seldras, who stood waiting patiently.
“I know not.” Her voice was timid.
“What?” Commanded the strange voice once again.
“I know not!”
Seldras’s head shifted to the right. “And you?”
“Sorcery.” Naeanin’s voice was as cool as the deep, throaty voice that gripped Seldras. Immediately, the orb before the High Druid glowed brightly, only for a moment. The force of light caused Shaelildrian and Alanea to shield their eyes. The force brimmed red for a moment before returning to its earthly green glow.
“Very good.” Seldras cracked a small, perturbing smile. “And you?” His head snapped again.
Shaelildrian had not been expecting such a thing. He hesitated.
“Well?”
“I too know not.”
“You should already know your place.” This was not Seldras. Seldras was a grouch, it was said, and widely reputed so, but this was truly not him. There was no patience, tolerance, or wisdom in his eyes. Only madness.
“I have not yet ex – explored the possibilities!”
Seldras stared hard. “You know of what others do in this village, yes?”
“Yes, High Druid.”
Seldras tried his hands at patience, “Well, you are younger than most,” he reasoned, “which is the most pleasing to you?”
“I don’t know.”
The spirit within Seldras only glared.
“Then there are things you shall need to learn on your own time. Regrettably, such professions must be selected within the confines of ceremony.”
“Why?” asked Shaelildrian.
“It is tradition.”
“But why?” Shaelildrian’s confusion was evidently increasing the scowl on Seldras’ wizened brow.
“It has always been this way. It has never been undone. Do you dare defy tradition?”
Shaelildrian was silent.
The spirit interpreted the response from Shaelildrian as not courage in the face of a frightening thing, but as insolence in the face of authority. He surged forward and grabbed Shaelildrian by the tunic, lifting him off of the ground. The energies that flowed through him channeled into his hands and then slipped past Shaelildrian’s minimal defenses to the magical arts. The child began thrashing for only a moment before his body went limp, the muscles still convulsing as though he had been jolted by electricity.
Alanea wanted to scream, but instead chose to rise to her feet and pound her fist into the side of Seldras’ robes. “Stop it! Stop it!” Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Naeanin looked on, her dark eyes even smaller slits than usual, a small grin parted on her lips, as if she were enjoying this torture. She looked more unlike an elf than anything, like some darker creature, as though she could blanket the sun with a gaze.
Alanea did not notice this. She continued to rap into Seldras’ robes, until Seldras finally paid her some mind and released Shaelildrian, sending him crumpled onto the ground. “Shae!” She dropped to her knees, then looked back up at Seldras, teary-eyed, “How could you? How could you?”
Seldras grimaced, then held a hand forward again, palm facing Alanea. She squealed and then fell back on her hands and butt, horrified. The palm did not move from its fixed point. Moments later, Shae began once again to stir. Seldras had used his powers as a punishment, and then felt he had righted things by using a healing spell.
“Well, child?”
Shaelildrian only panted, still winded. He broke out into a cold sweat.
“Well?” Seldras went to put another hand upon Shaelildrian, his murky voice more terrifying to the children than ever.
Naeanin rose, anxious to see what pain would be inflicted next; Alanea felt something bubble up inside her, some foreign energy. The light, tingling feeling caused by the room ceased and was replaced by a cool, coruscating feeling around her body. Something clicked in Seldras, because he took immediate notice of the energy build in the room and looked straight at Alanea, stunned. Children should not possess such fields of energy; when people do, the fields should always be present, not rising and falling like the ocean’s current, like this child of only seven winters. And then the winds of a typhoon kicked into the room.
“Child –”
The room went dark. Naeanin leaped up and cowered away from the winds behind the sphere, which now swirled within in a smoky gray heaving mass. Occasionally, the core of the mass would ignite in a bright light that faltered away quickly, like a muted thunderstorm. This was the only light in the room. The current picked up and picked Seldras up by the feet, dragging him several feet away from Shae’s still-troubled body. The essence of Alanea was altered for a moment, the sweet face of an innocent girl heeding to the face of a powerful woman within, lunging like a black wolf of air into the heart of the one who hurt her whenever the light hit her. “Stay back!”
Seldras was pushed into the wall of the room, his head twisted to the side in the force of the wind, trying to keep his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from losing his grip. He thought. And a thought was all it took.
The High Druid’s house was well-guarded by a series of small channels that opened into each room through a small wooden slit on the ceiling – within the miniscule passages (so small that Shaelildrian's fingers would barely be able to poke in) lay the best protection against intruders a High Druid could have, creatures so diminutive and dangerous that, while having the power to incarcerate an adult, children would likely be killed; drae wasps, as they were known, were a wild insect rarely seen and thought extirpated by ways of magic and common law. Druids, of course, had stacks of the insects, and knew just the incantations to gain the trust of the nest’s queen.
The drae wasps began to file into the room, washed around by the whirlwind current that swept abroad the circular edifice.
[hunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunterhunter –] a thousand voices in one, all monotone, all shallow.
Shaelildrian’s ears perked, though he was not sure why, nor was he conscious enough to reason it.
“Leave him alone –” the innocence in Alanea stumbled over the words, having to shout over the whipping winds still circling the room. “–sir!”
Out of nowhere, Naeanin followed the path of the current around and into Alanea, tackling the smaller girl hard to the ground and sending the winds into a breeze, and then into nothing by the time that everything had been sorted out. The orb once again shifted green, but the ceiling was not the same any longer – rather, it had been speckled with black dots, black dots that moved, and buzzed, and wanted to bring pain. Hungry black dots.
The two girls tussled for a moment before Seldras rushed over and tore them apart by the backs of their clothes. He held Naeanin aside and then moved forward with Alanea. “Alanea, I want you to do something for me.” Seldras spoke calmly, but quickly, as though there were a secret abroad he had little time to tell of. Whatever spirits had haunted the elder previously were gone, and he seemed back to normal, though his bitter grimace was one of fear and intensity instead. “Speak to this orb. Speak the word ‘sorcery’. Can you do that for me, please?”
Alanea shot a glance to Naeanin, whose dark and sullen eyes had been shifted away by the tilting-back of her head, revealing their true intensity in malevolent form. “With her?”
“Just say it! Be quick.”
After a moment’s hesitation, followed by a sigh of anguish, she spoke. “Sorcery.”
“Good,” Seldras looked to the two girls. “Get out of here. Walk slowly. Meet me in the main room in just a moment. Go.” He edged Alanea off with a shove and then quickly moved to Shaelildrian’s side. The orb, in the meantime, flashed a speck of bright yellow, and then went back to the verdant green it had been.
“Is he going to be okay?” Alanea asked, looking at Shaelildrian.
“Yes, he’s going to –” the buzzing became a roar as Seldras had spoken – his voice had been raised. Sure enough, a mass of whizzing black particles orbited the upper half of the room, descending slowly along their circular track. If they reached the level of Shaelildrian and Seldras, no amount of control that the High Druid had over the queen – nor any amount of control the queen had over her minions – would save them.
[HUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTERHUNTER]
The druid quickly incanted a few words, but Shaelildrian’s eyes were already shot open. He could hear what the others could not. Seldras gripped the boy’s shoulders and spoke quickly. “Child, these creatures will kill us. They know no mercy. We must get out of here. They will kill everything until the room has been cleansed, starting at the top and working their way down. It is the method of the drae wasp. We must leave, now. Crawl with me toward the exit.”
Shaelildrian, still groggy, said, “tradition,” his attention span still straight above his head, watching the dancing and twirling, dancing and twirling, the dance of death, a mere three feet from the floor.
“You’ve not picked! We must go!”
[HUNTERHUNTERHUNTER]
Shaelildrian was so dizzy, it was as though the room were spinning and the enraged insects were stationary. He said the only thing that could come to him. “Hunter?” The orb pitched again from green, this time with a flash of light so bright, that the insects immediately shot skyward, clinging to the roof, with many retreating back into the narrow crack whence they came.
Seldras, still gripping Shaelildrian, looked into the boy’s tired eyes with disbelief and disappointment. No. It cannot be. A child with such promise… a hunter? He had shown no real promise, but – great expectations, great things… the Foretell… he let go of his grip, and put his hand up once more; the beasts in the rage of the spell would attack, but now, once again passive, they would return to their hives. Surely enough, they re-entered their catacombs within the great tree of the High Druid. Seldras got up, brushed himself off, and went out to the girls.
“It has been done.”
Alanea took a step forward, but Seldras shot a hand out. Whatever power the child of Arieanna and Ialanis possessed, it was not something she had learned to harness – but at least she knew it was hers. Regardless, she submitted passively to the outstretched palm. She hesitated a moment, her eyes flitting between the ground and Seldras’ face, which looked more troubled than stern now, but was nevertheless strikingly awful. And, given her recent offense (though she wasn’t sure how closely she was related), she decided it best not to pursue too far, “how is Shae?”
“Fine. He’s fine,” Seldras turned back to go and get Shae.
“Did he pick?” Seldras whirled and opened his mouth to impatiently tell Alanea to be silent, but it had been Naeanin who spoke. He snapped his mouth shut – while he did not want to hear her or anyone else talk, Naeanin’s family held far too much power in the elven community for Seldras to risk shouting at her. Judging by the smug look on Naeanin’s face, this fact had been bred into her. She knew her place of power. She would go to all the best schools, have all the best professors, all the best sorcerous equipment – but it was easy to see why she was jealous of both Shaelildrian and Alanea; whilst she had the opportunity of a child who could have anything she wanted, these things were material. The gifts of Alanea were now obvious beyond her family, and likely to grow in power; whatever Naeanin received would be a large leap (a well-endowed magical robe was, to a lordly sorcerer, a lifesaver, at times), but that would be the extent of it. Who knew what the daughter of a bowyer could achieve? Naeanin was not kept in the dark regarding children being born of demigods; no amount of money could wish that. She would always be dark to them. Always.
“Yes. He did. Hunter.” He spoke the last word with such contempt as to make even the snotty Naeanin grit her teeth. Shaelildrian appeared in the doorway, looking pale and holding his weight against the circular frame with a shaky arm.
“Stand here, children.” Seldras motioned all of the children into the same part of the room, and then began intricately twisting his hands and gutturally incanting. His eyes drew back and then, to all four in the room, the world shot forward, and then back again, as though time had heaved on itself.
Shaelildrian, Alanea and Naeanin were suddenly very tired.
“Okay, children. You may go. The leafroot awaits.” Seldras spoke quietly, almost soothingly. It came as a relief to all three. The bark that had grown over the door melted back with a grinding series of crunches, and the root once again came forward at their feet, with a large leaf atop it. They stepped on, with Alanea grasping to Shae and Naeanin taking to the other side, staring contemptuously down into his eyes. He made sure not to look back.
The root slowly lowered to the ground.
Seldras watched it go at first, then closed the bark door again and went into the altar room to once again cover the orb. Within the confines of its smooth, smoky interior, there was a large black lotus that appeared for only a moment before being sucked into the center of the orb, out of sight, as though it had never been there. Seldras tossed the cloth over and grit his own teeth, for once.
When the root reached the ground, there stood Arieanna and Ialanis, Archillea and Doradus, and an emissary bearing a black cloak with a red flute crocheted on it – the symbol of the Windsongs. Alanea held her arms out and was grabbed and held aloft by her father before the leafroot had touched the ground. Shaelildrian hopped off by himself, and Naeanin waited for the root to reach the ground before stepping off, one hand out to her emissary.
“Yours, Ms. Windsong.”
“Let us go home.” Naeanin briefly scanned the adults, bearing a self-righteous and complacent grin. And without a word, she walked away briskly, her servant in pursuit.
When she was gone, it was Arieanna, certainly the most cheery of the three remaining females, spoke first, “well, how was it?”
The two children looked at each other, sorrowfully, then back to the adults, who all smiled gently. Shaelildrian spoke. “It was fine.”
“And you’ve selected, yes?”
Two nods, and a moment of silence.
Ialanis, feeling a knot of anxiety and a bubble of laughter almost coming through and making him drop his daughter, looked right into her eyes, “Well? What were your decisions?”
Alanea, feeling the warmth of her father, brightened immediately and said, “Sorcery!”
Ialanis and Arieanna’s eyes both glinted – that would be a very expensive procedure, getting her put through that kind of school. Even the least expensive of such institutions were well beyond the price range of the two. “Well, dear, we’ll see what we can do for you, then.”
“How about you, Shae, dear?” Archillea leaned down and kissed her son gently on the forehead, her arm around his shoulder.
“I – I –” Shae started, “I don’t remember.”
He received five separate glances.
It was Doradus who spoke, a slight tremble in his voice. “What?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t know if I said anything.”
“Don’t you remember our talks?” The Terrasils had told Shae that, because of his extensive studies in swordplay, he should make a move towards an army position; Shae had never shown any real prowess at woodworking; his only real interests seem to lie with the blade and arrow.
In truth, Shaelildrian didn’t remember ever speaking with his father at that moment.
“Ow –”
“How can you no longer remember –”
“Hunter, Shae, hunter!” Said Alanea, interrupting Doradus’ yelling. “Shae picked hunter. Seldras told us.”
A silent sigh of relief came from all, especially Shaelildrian.
“He told us.”
“Hunter. Very good, son. Very good.” Doradus rested a shaky hand atop Shaelildrian’s shoulder. A hunter? A hunter? Shaelildrian’s life was a rot, now. The hunters of any village were lower-class citizens, slobs, and not well-respected at all. They were dropouts from all degrees, masters of nothing. They were village gatherers, of no high regard whatsoever. Alas, the decision had been made, and so it was. The child of a thousand worries, of ill-found birth, of controversy and discord, was to be one of the lowest-possible members of society. Even the best hunters were not so highly regarded. A life of rot.
