Chapter 4
4
Cyran stepped up to the bridge separating the elf realm of Alfheimr and the dwarf realm of Svartálfheimr. Before the war, the two realms were one, and all elves came and went without penalty. Now, there was a definite divide, which was sad.
He had memories from childhood of deep blue lakes that were great for swimming and rich mountains with plants not found anywhere else. Now, they were shielded by the dwarves, not that he could blame.
Getting his hands on even one of the plants seemed bleak since elves weren’t allowed in the dwarven realm after their liberation from slavery. Over the centuries, however, he had heard rumors of dwarves still being enslaved, although no one had ever found any evidence of the deplorable practice.
Maybe one day, things between the races would change. He would love to get his hands on some of the rare specimens growing under the shadow of the king’s mountain. Their healing capabilities were magical.
Glancing at the lush elven lands behind him, he knew the best places where there were abundant trees and colorful plants, but here… He turned his gaze back to the barren black plains of the dwarf kingdom before him. He didn’t remember it being so stark. No plant or tree could be seen for miles.
The only object marring the empty horizon was the tall spires of a single mountain surrounded by a strange gray haze obscuring the landscape. Not even the sun was clearly visible. He also knew the dwarf sentries would never let him go that far into Svartálfheimr.
His gaze returned to the tall peak on the horizon. A shiver stole through him, his gaze narrowing on the mountain.
Exhaling, he walked across the wooden bridge and stepped onto the stone path that would take him farther into Svartálfheimr, the last place he wanted to go. He would much rather be standing in front of a firing squad in Nazi Germany than here. At least he knew the passage of time on Midgard. Here, time stood still. Not even Freyja had seen anything about Svartálfheimr in her God’s Glass. It was as if the realm was being blocked somehow.
“ Dar !” a male voice cried out. Cyran did as the guard demanded and halted. Two dwarves appeared, walking out of the gray haze. They stopped in front of him, their long golden swords aimed at his midsection. “Elves are not welcome here. Return to Alfheimr or suffer the consequences.”
Cyran’s gaze moved over the speaker. The handsome dwarf was dressed in black, and his upper body was protected by a golden breastplate with matching arm and leg guards, both beautiful and functional in battle. His hazel eyes were sharp and seemed to miss nothing, and his brown hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, sharpening his features and giving him an air of fierceness.
If he were placed side by side with an Elven soldier, there would be no difference between them, making this schism all the more heartbreaking.
“I have been sent here by the co-regents of Alfheimr,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
“We don’t care who sent you.” The other dwarf raised his sword a few inches to point it at Cyran’s heart. “Turn around and leave.”
Cyran noticed the similarities between the two dwarves. The only difference besides age was the slight red tint in the younger male’s hair. He returned his gaze to the first guard. “You need to teach your brother to rein in his anger, or it will get him killed.”
“Why—!” The younger dwarf stepped forward, only to be stopped by the sword arm of his brother. “Niall, you go too far. Stand back and learn. When father hears of this…”
The brown-haired guard sheathed his sword and gave Cyran a quick nod. “I am sorry for my brother, sir. Our father is the leader of the nearest village, and we were instructed to watch out for strangers passing through here.”
Cyran raised one brow. “Who told you to be wary? I’m sure many pass through Svartálfheimr.” He glanced around at the bleak landscape behind the brothers. “Although, I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t stay long. It is…barren.”
The younger dwarf scuffed his black boot through the dirt. “It didn’t use to be like this. We had thick forests and more flowers than a person could ever pick. Our mother would fill our home with fresh bouquets daily, and our father would laugh at her for it.” He met his brother’s sad gaze. “If she had lived to see how our realm looked now…” his voice trailed off, but not before Cyran heard the wobble.
He understood the youngster’s sorrow as his memories turned to his mother and how hard he had taken her death. He stepped closer and placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder, the heat from Niall’s body warming the metal plate under Cyran’s palm. “I, too, lost my mother at an early age. Be thankful your father is still alive to guide and teach you. He sounds like a good man.”
Once more, his gaze was drawn to the horizon. He shook his head. “I remember the lush valleys and lakes covering this area. This,” he motioned with a wave of his arm, “is a travesty.”
The older dwarf nodded. “Our father is an amazing leader. He watches out for those less fortunate and ensures they have enough to eat and a place to live, which takes up much of his time. He cares for the townsfolk, but we know he loves us.”
He sent a furtive glance to their left and right, then again met Cyran’s gaze. “My name is Siall. We were warned by a close friend who works in the palace. Strange things are happening there, and he wanted us to be careful. Watchful.”
Cyran nodded. “Can you tell me more about what’s happening?” He lowered his voice so only the two brothers could hear him.
Niall threw his brother a worried glance. He leaned close to his brother’s ear and whispered in the dwarven tongue—a language Cyran hadn’t heard since his mother’s death. Because of dialect, not every word was intelligible, but he understood enough of what Niall said. He wanted to take him back to their village so their father could explain—maybe even convince Cyran to help them. He bit back his smile.
After a few seconds, Siall nodded and pulled out his sword. “The king has spies everywhere, so play along. We will take you to our home, and you can talk with our father. Explain to him why you are here.” Cyran tilted his head in agreement and raised his hands. He stepped between the two and walked into the haze. “Follow the path ahead until you reach a fork in the road. Take the left path, which will lead into our village proper.”
“I think this is overkill, but whatever.” Cyran continued along the path. Following their instructions, he turned left when he reached the first branch. “Have either of you heard of an old law stating a healer is allowed in all realms?”
After a brief hesitation, Siall’s lower voice answered. “No. Proceed through those two stone columns. Keep on the main road. Our father’s hut is in the village center. You can’t miss it. It’s the largest hut.”
As he passed the columns, Cyran noticed the runic etchings on each, the ancient words welcoming those with no ill will and wishing them a peaceful visit. “Nice sentiment,” he muttered. “Too bad the rest of the realm didn’t pay heed.”
“What?” Niall asked, walking close behind him.
“Just admiring the greeting on the stones.”
“There’s a greeting? Where? All I see are childish scratches.”
Cyran frowned at the young dwarf. “You don’t read runes?”
After a glance at his brother, Niall shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know what runes are.”
Cyran exhaled. “If youth aren’t taught the ancient languages, they will continue to die and be forgotten. All that history—gone.”
“Why should we learn languages no longer spoken? And history? Phhhh.” Niall scoffed as they walked along the stone pathway to the village center. “History doesn’t teach us anything. Our daily experiences teach us all we need to know.”
“No, my friend, history is everything.” Cyran stopped in front of the most prominent house and turned to the brothers. Only when you know and understand history, not just one side but all sides, can you make better decisions for the future. Without knowing what came before, you have no idea how to deal with what is yet to be, as history tends to repeat itself, no matter what realm you are in.”
“He is correct, my sons. Listen to him, for he is educated and intelligent. So many are not these days.”
Cyran turned to an older version of the brothers. Their father’s reddish-brown hair was sprinkled with gray, and he had a few wrinkles on the outsides of each eye, but the heavy mustache and beard threw him. Few elves ever wore facial hair, but somehow, it suited this man.
He gave the older dwarf a slow nod and held out his hand. The dwarf wrapped strong fingers around Cyran’s wrist in the ancient Elven tradition, then released his arm. “I am Torrel Valnan, leader of this small village. You are?”
Cyran tilted his head. “It is nice to meet you, Torrel. My name is Cyran Daralei. I have been sent from the co-regents of Alfheimr to enact an ancient tradition as the interim healer.”
Torrel smiled, one thick brown brow rising as the older dwarf studied him. “So, Lamruil and Ailuin, too, know their history. I approve. Let us go inside, sample some of my recent vintage, and discuss this ancient tradition.” He stepped away from the open doorway and motioned for Cyran to enter.
He walked into the hut, thinking it to be modest, but was surprised to see it decorated much like his mother’s home. Various animal hides graced the stone floor, which was a magnificent shade of dark green that reminded him of an emerald.
A warm fire crackled in the simple stone fireplace, which occupied most of the living room wall and was shared with the dining room on the other side. A rustic table and chairs were visible through the open back. The furniture was hand-carved, and the tapestry cushions were worn from decades of use.
He sat in one of the two single chairs, surprised to find it quite comfortable, and glanced around the room. Various pictures hung on the walls, mostly of children, who had to be Siall and Niall as youths with another male, possibly an older brother or cousin, from the facial resemblance. Soft landscape watercolors in blues, greens, and pinks were scattered throughout the ample space.
Tarran sat in the chair opposite him while his sons dropped onto the sofa, Niall using the table in front of him as a footrest. “So, young Cyran, the twins are beginning their endeavor to unite our people.” It was a statement, not a question, but it held the same importance.
“Both Lamruil and Ailuin want to right the wrongs of their forefathers. They are good regents and even better friends. They are like my brothers.”
Tarran studied him a moment, then nodded. “That is good. I have waited centuries to hear those words. Long have I prayed that I would see a good king ascend the throne during my lifetime. One or two, in this case, who listen to all elves, no matter their ethnicity. Although our forefathers broke with Elven tradition and began calling ourselves dwarves, I have always been an elf in my heart. My three sons are elves and need to know their history.”
Cyran smiled at Niall. “On the way here, we were discussing that very thing—history, weren’t we, Niall?” The young dwarf stared at him with a raised brow but kept silent.
“What else are you here for, Cyran?”
Cyran liked Tarran, and the man was beyond wise. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that. Back in Asgard and Alfheimr, I am surrounded by people who always seem to know what I’m thinking before I do. It’s annoying. Back to your question, though. I was also sent here to find two young women who disappeared near the border village. The one that burned to the ground not long ago. Shalendra Elasalor is the daughter of émilien Elasalor, whom you may know as the guardian of the Shadow Lands, and his wife, Hel.”
Siall sat up a bit taller, his eyes wide. “Not the Hel—as in the queen of Niflheimr?”
Cyran met his brown gaze. “The same. And before you ask, she is as fierce as the stories say. Worse, when someone she loves is in trouble. Hel is an incredible woman and loyal to a fault when it comes to those she holds close to her heart.”
“I’m more interested in hearing about émilien,” Niall said. “Are the stories true—that he is part wolf and part elf?”
“They are. He is the first of all werewolves. I have never seen his equal in battle.”
“Whoa.” The brothers sat back against the sofa, their faces expressing amazement and awe.
“The other woman is Shalendra’s childhood friend, Soliana Tornorin.”
“I knew her grandfather, Luthais. He was a hard man, but just. If I remember correctly, he had two sons. One son died during the Great War, but the younger son lived. Durothil, I believe his name was.”
Cyran chuckled. “You know more than I do. I was told she was Shalendra’s best friend and to find and bring them both home.”
Tarran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I remember someone named Daralei. Tell me, young elf, are you, in fact, a healer?”
Cyran saw no malice or judgment in the older elf’s gaze. “From your question, you know of Haman Daralei, the previous healer to the black king. While he may have taught me the trade and called himself my stepfather, I was not his son.”
An appreciative light glowed deep in Tarran’s gaze, and he leaned back in his chair with a nod. “Good. I knew Haman well, and even though you carry his name, you did not seem like him.”
“That’s an observation I will take as a compliment. I spent most of my youth trying to prove I wasn’t like him, but with age, I have learned it doesn’t matter. I am who I am supposed to be, and those close to me accept me. My mother was a more gifted healer, and I learned more from her than Haman. She would often have to revisit his patients and heal them or redo the potions he had given them because they didn’t work.”
Tarran nodded. “I knew Teriani, and you are correct. She was an exceptional healer. I thought it was a mistake when the king was swayed to accept Haman as the royal healer instead of her. I have often thought back to that time and wondered why.”
“The only people who know are gone, but I believe Haman magically influenced the decision. Several things have come to light in recent weeks that reinforce that suspicion.” Cyran said, trying to taper the bitterness in his tone.
“Lamruil has appointed me as the interim healer until I decide whether to accept or do something else. While I have no wish to follow in Haman’s footsteps, I also sense my mother’s influence, so I remain undecided. I was also asked by Ailuin’s wife, Raisa, to train a small group of werewolves and draugar, which I enjoy almost as much as potions and healing spells, so I may do that for a while. Evidently, they don’t get along. With all the discord and strange happenings in the realms, we need them to work together.”
Siall leaned forward. “We’ve heard about the Dark Fae’s experiments.” Cyran couldn’t help but hear the underlying excitement in the youth’s voice. He would have reacted the same way at his age. Siall leaned in even more, teetering on the edge of the seat. “I have seen the werewolves, but what are the draugar like?”
Cyran stilled. “You saw a group of them here? In Svartálfheimr? Where?”
Siall glanced at his brother and then back at Cyran. “We saw them twice. Once was almost a year ago. They were camped near here. We watched them for one night, but they were gone by morning. We followed their tracks for several miles.”
“You should have mentioned this to me. In what direction were they heading?” their father asked.
“Southeast.”
Cyran thought back to the map in the twins’ palace, mentally picturing the layout of this realm. From what he could recall, there was only one reason why they would be headed in that direction. “And the second time? Where and when did you see them?”
“It was almost a month ago.” Siall glanced at his father. “It was when you sent us on the scouting mission so we could improve our skills with the more learned guards. We had just set up camp when they passed us—on the south river between the border and King Windsworth’s palace. There were ten of them, all blending into the night and heading straight for the mountain.”
Niall frowned. “Why do you think they were going there?”
Tarran dropped his gaze to the tabletop, his brown eyes narrowed in thought. “I have heard…rumors over the last couple of months. Whispers amongst the village leaders who have been called to the palace. They said they were forced to swear allegiance to the king once again, but no one ever explained why. As our first king, we all swore to him when he was coronated. It does not make sense.”
“You were not asked to swear allegiance again?” Cyran asked.
“I was, but duty held me back. I am supposed to travel to the mountain in two days.”
A frantic knocking filled the room, stopping whatever else he might have said as he motioned for Siall to see who it was. The heavy wooden door swung open, and Cyran heard someone whispering in sharp, clipped speech. A few moments later, the young dwarf returned with a gaunt-looking elf.
Tarran frowned and stood. “Elreth, what is it? Has something happened?”
The sickly man nodded. “Nala is sick…very sick.”
“You don’t look well yourself.”
The newcomer waved off the words. “I am fine, just tired. Playing nursemaid is not for me. Give me hard labor any day compared to waiting on someone who is sick. I am worried, though. This sickness is unlike any I have ever seen.”
“What are her symptoms?” Cyran asked.
“Where are my manners.” Tarran gave the newcomer a half smile. “Elreth, this is Cyran Daralei from Alfheimr. He was sent to us by the new co-regents to reinstate the ancient law and will be helping those who need medical help.”
Elreth studied Cyran for a moment, then scowled at Tarran. “We can trust him?”
“I sense no evil or malice in him, if that’s what you mean. His mother was Teriana Daralei. You would have known her by the surname Gillar.”
His brows rose. “Keryth’s girl?” Tarran nodded. “That’s another thing then.” He turned to face Cyran, holding his arm out in greeting. Cyran grasped the man’s wrist without hesitation, then dropped his hand.
“You asked about symptoms,” Elreth continued. “She can’t get out of bed and has been running a high temperature. She sneezes like she is allergic to the air around her and then almost passes out from coughing because she can’t catch her breath.”
“Does she have any rashes or marks on her skin? It can be anywhere on her body, not just her face. Has she spit up any blood?”
“Not that I can see for either.”
“Would you mind if I take a look at her?” Cyran met Tarran’s worried gaze. “I have a few spells that will protect me if she’s contagious. If you’d like to see her, I can have another person with me inside the spell dome?”
Tarran stood. “Yes, I have not visited with Nala in a few weeks, so I’d best come with you. She has a wicked temper if she doesn’t like you.”
“Tarran! That’s my wife you’re talking about.”
The village leader chuckled, throwing a dark green cloak over his shoulders. “And she’s my sister. I can say whatever I like, if it’s the truth. You did not grow up under her temper.” He laid his hands on both boys’ shoulders. “Stay here and mind the house. Keep watch. I will give Aunt Nala your love and will return soon.”
No sooner had the three men left the house than three more villagers stopped them, asking for the healer to visit their sick. By the time they reached Elreth’s tiny hut, they had been stopped no less than twenty times.
In case Elreth was contagious, Cyran laid his hand on Tarran’s shoulder, feeling the rough material of his cloak as he whispered the protection spell. Once the spell was secure over them, he pulled back his hand and gave the men a curt wave to lead the way. “Let’s go in and see what ails your sister, shall we?”
After a quick examination, Cyran motioned for the two men to follow him back outside. He noticed the slight flushing of Elreth’s skin and the layer of sweat beading across his forehead. “Elreth, you need to go inside and stay with your wife. Better yet, crawl into the bed with her because I think you, too, have what she has. I’m going to go see the other sick to make sure this is all the same thing before I make any diagnoses.”
One of the men who had already asked about having the healer visit his home returned, his expression more distressed. “Tarran, I must speak with you.”
The older dwarf nodded. “I know you are worried about your children, Lyari, but Cyran will stop at your hut as soon as possible.”
Lyari shook his head, dropping his chin as he glanced around them, ensuring no one could overhear. “It is not about my children, although I am worried. I was sent a missive from our liaison at the palace. The king has brought in creatures. They are moving from village to village. Those who fight back, they kill. The ones who surrender are taken to the dungeon. Who knows what happens to them once there? I thought you should know—to prepare.”
Tarran scrubbed his face. “Thank you, Lyari. Go home and be with your sweetlings. They are going to need your protection.”
After visiting with all the sick, they returned to the first house to tell Elreth that everyone who was ill seemed to have the same symptoms. Cyran followed Tarran back to his home with a weary tilt of his head.
Only when the door closed and the lock clicked shut behind them did Cyran meet the leader’s bleak gaze. “As many sick people as you have in this village, my gut is screaming at me that we are going to be in over our heads with whatever this is. Neither elves nor dwarves get sick, and I have never seen a disease like this. I also need to get to the mountain.”
Tarran nodded. “We will leave for the palace tonight and hope our arrival tomorrow is not too late.”