Chapter 30 #2
The laughter swells until I catch the pale glow of skin in the dark, the frizzy hair twisting in the air as children hop along rocks, water splashing from their buckets.
As they move, smiles revealing fanged teeth, I can see the cavern behind them, through them.
Their bodies are translucent.
They are memories.
One of the children takes a tumble into the rocks, and the two boys drop their buckets to help her.
A shrill cry whips through her lips, and the boys wave their hands frantically to try to get her to stop.
A thin red mark appears over her leg, dripping into the stream and disappearing.
The boys continue to holler for help, arms flailing in the air.
They must’ve died before they learned how to use healing magic.
I outstretch my arm, aim my fingers at the stream, and close my eyes, willing water from my eluviam to rise and condense in my fingers. The special water healers use on the wounded.
Can memories be healed?
When I open my eyes, I seem to have summoned not water, but a blond-braided male elf who has begun tending to the young girl’s wounds.
Real, solid hands hovering over the wound of a transparent being.
Familiar hands.
My heart throbs in my chest. I stumble forward for a better view, and though he isn’t facing me, warmth flutters down my arms.
“Pluto!” It’s impossible to hide my excitement.
There is no questioning it—my elven brother is here, a long way from Nwatalith.
He’s alive and well, tending to the crypt and caring for the dead.
I’d all but forgotten that this small task was passed to him when our village’s sages were forced to transfer their healing skills to care for the living, and not the dead.
He snaps his head toward me after tending to the young one’s wound and lifts a porcelain finger to his lips. When I cover my mouth, he returns to the children, shooing them away with slender hands.
They disappear down the path obediently, no laughter to be heard.
I sprint to him. Emotions spill over my cheeks as I open my arms and wrap him tightly in my arms. His thin body reminds me of home, of everything before my summons. Of a time I miss greatly.
I run my hand over his long flaxen braid as he lifts his scrawny arms and pulls me tighter.
He smells of dried daisies, the spice of rain, and salt—just like I remember.
I lean away to dry my cheeks. He takes me in, irises quaking between black and pink, almost to that purple-ish color I’ve often seen him wear. He’s waging an internal war to hide his true feelings, though I know the adversaries are pain and fear.
“Ether, I’ve missed you,” he says in his soft, whistly voice, but there’s a darkness to it that sends a tremor across my shoulders.
“I’ve missed you too.” I smile. Something passes between us, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about what he’s doing here, helping the spirits move on to be with Aldorin.
If he wants to tell me, he will, and if he doesn’t, that’s okay too.
Our trust runs deep enough that not every action needs explaining.
So instead of questioning him, I give him a quick scan, then purse my lips to the side. “You’ve grown thin.”
His jaw stiffens, and his eyes finally give in to a muted periwinkle.
The color represents mourning, and I’ve only seen him reveal the color once, when we first met.
“Ever since the Sanvira was killed, the creatures of the forest have declined. Most of us have started living off the energy of the forest alone rather than from the beasts within it. And Aldorin’s magic can’t support the demand.
” He lifts a bony hand to my face. I flinch at his icy touch.
“You can feel it too, right? The forest’s energy swelling and receding? ”
I can barely contain my shock. My mouth falls open, and I blink while I try to form my words. All I can manage is, “Did you say a Sanvira was killed?”
He grimaces. “Yes. Did the prince not tell you? He was searching for the murderer. But I took that burden from him.” He sighs, then adds, “And I led him to the tallup’s breeding grounds.”
My head swims with this new information. But Pluto doesn’t give me time to respond. He moves on to his connection with Ramiel.
“He’s an interesting character, that prince. Somehow, he knew the lullaby of the forest.”
My mouth hangs open again. The lullaby of the forest is exclusively known by our kind, so why can Ramiel, of all people, understand our ancient song?
None of this makes any damn sense.
“I know,” he says with a small sigh. For a second, I wonder if I’d said my thoughts aloud, but then he continues, “After he heard the lullaby, he all at once had the ability to use magic. The one thing I can conclude is that the spell, as you know, is?—”
“—meant to remove magical barriers,” we say in sync.
My hand goes to my mouth.
There’s no way Ramiel can be a mere human prince. If the lullaby opened some magic barrier set upon him, there’s no way he doesn’t possess elven blood. Has he been concealing his identity like Ronan?
“I think Ramiel must have some connection to our kind,” Pluto says excitedly, “though I’m not sure how. I sensed it when he resurfaced with your tallup. My eluviam stirred, warming at the presence of another nearby. But right after his had awakened, it shrank in size like a child’s.”
“He thinks he is still just a human.” I chew on my lip, my hand drifting to my arm. “But if he isn’t…that would explain a lot of things.”
He squints at me, catching my subtle movement. His hand slides beneath my elbow, turning my arm so the fleshier side faces up. The glowing insignia illuminates the sharp lines of his face as his expression hardens.
“I can expl?—”
“There’s no need. I should be glad you’ve managed to make some progress with your…” His face contorts uncomfortably. “As long as you’re happy, that is all that matters.”
I huff, eyebrows drawing downward. I’m not sure why I expected him to be outraged at my mark. But then again, the cursed blessing is not, and shouldn’t be, on his priority list. Not if the forest is suffering thanks to the death of a Sanvira.
He glances around the crypt, his thoughts flickering in his expression. “The situation in Nwatalith has become dire. In addition to Aldorin’s magic draining, we learned who murdered the Sanvira, and now we are unsure of what to do.”
I stumble backward, and my foot slips and plops into the cold water. Real, cold water. I shiver at its iciness swirling around my ankle. Pluto reaches toward me to pull me from the stream.
“What do you mean?” I croak, shaking my wet foot before smearing it over the warm dirt.
Pluto swipes a loose strand of straw-colored hair from his forehead, sighing.
“The Sanvira was killed by mages . You know what sort of threat that poses...right?” When I don’t answer, he whispers what I already know: “War, Ether. This could mean another war between humans and elves. A second War of Undying.”
“Do you think”—I nearly vomit the words as I choke them out—“Ramiel could be involved?” The prince did forget to mention this detail from his trip. Could he have had something to do with everything that happened? But why ? I breathe shakily and lift a palm to my forehead.
“I never accused the prince, but I remain cautious in my position as Nwatalith’s intel. It’s for the safety of our people. I’m sure you understand.”
“But sages deal with death,” I protest. “Why did you have to get involved?”
Pluto hushes me with a soft smile. “This is a matter beyond death, Ether. It’s become political.”
I gnaw on my lip, averting Pluto’s concerned stare.
“Sorry, I’m just…conflicted. I trust Ramiel. He’s been through a lot in such a short period of time, and I have no reason to doubt his intentions. It’s other humans I don’t trust.”
“Who?”
I want to tell him. But I know if I explain the king’s plan, Pluto will worry even more about me and our people. I nod my head and give him my best smile. “I’ll tell you another time. After all of this is over.”
Pluto presses his forehead to mine, communicating his understanding. His eyes flutter shut, and a contented smile rests over his thin lips. “We will get through this,” he whispers. “We must. If war is what these creatures want, I’ll do everything to stay at your side. You won’t be alone.”
My eyes moisten at his promise, but I refuse to let any tears fall. I’m bigger than that. Better. Stronger.
“I’ll see you again,” I say, and he nods.
A promise.
“Will you stay down here to pay your respects?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes, just a little longer,” I say.
With a solemn nod, he turns around and disappears into the hungry shadows.
When I return aboveground, a dullness settles over me. It is as Pluto had said. The forest’s magic is waning. But why am I only noticing it after he’d pointed it out?
I step forward, kicking dust into the air with my bare feet and brushing it off when it clings to my cloak.
A blur of black blocks the small crackling fire at Hearthstrom’s center.
I rub my eyes to make sure my vision isn’t playing tricks on me, and when I realize it isn’t, my heart drops to the ground.
It’s a mage. A mage . One of the creatures that killed a Sanvira, blinded Ramiel, and might’ve ruined everything .
I reclaim my heart and ignite it with fire. Anger fuels me now, festering like an agitated storm. I slide my knife from its sheath, jump into the air, lock my sights on the cloaked figure, and with one fell swoop, I?—
Something rough thuds into me, pushing me away from the mage. I crash into the hard ground, groaning upon impact. I grit my teeth and squint at the sun.
Ronan pins me down, his knees planted on either side of me. This position reminds me of our first meeting, though now it feels different. His eyes are the color of mutton, and his eyebrows knit with concern and alarm.
I try to wriggle from his grasp, but he forces me to stay, staring into my eyes.
“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.
“Guess who I met in the crypt?” I ask bitterly. “Pluto. He told me a damned mage killed a Sanvira. And neither one of you cared to tell me.” My head twitches toward the looming figure still standing around the flickering fire. “It deserves to die for its crimes.”
Ronan sighs. But, to my surprise, he stands and even offers to help me up.
I refuse his hand. At some point, my knife had flown from my hand. I quickly spot it glinting in the sunlight a few paces off, and I retrieve it, steadying its small leather handle in my fingers. I can still kill this thing as long as I feign calmness. As long as no one sees it coming.
“Careful who you point that thing at,” Ronan spits. He tilts his head toward the mage. “He’s not what you think he is. Seconds after you disappeared into the crypt, he came floating out of the well, as though summoned.” His eyes relax. “I can assure you he didn’t kill your Sanvira.”
I squint my eyes at him, lower the knife, and turn my attention to the figure looming around the fire. Its black cloak blurs at the edges, and the more I focus on it, the easier it is to tell it’s translucent. Another spirit?
Ramiel’s hands are raised slightly to the warmth of the small flames, hands turning a skewered fish on a stick and ignoring our conversation to listen to something the visitor is saying. He perks up a moment later, though, apparently sensing my presence.
“Ether, are you okay?” he asks.
I reach for him to let him know I’m here, ignoring how this may look to the guest, how it may look to Ronan. When our hands touch, the calmness is instant. His fingers entwine with mine, and he offers me the charred fish. I take it with my other hand and allow it to cool.
“I’m fine, but who’s this?” I ask sharply.
“Oh, him? He’s?—”
“Qor,” the creature grumbles.
My head snaps to the figure. He doesn’t sound like the mages I’m familiar with. My hand flips the knife once before tucking it into its holster. But I don’t latch it, just in case.
“That name belongs to a legendary elven warrior,” I spit. “One who fought in the War of Undying. Do you dare to taint his legacy with lies?”
The voice within the cloak chuckles, then two thick, bandaged hands appear from long sleeves to pull the hood over his head.
Slick raven hair tucks around his arrow-tipped ears, and his eyes fluoresce with gold.
Scars cut across his face, but his features are still intact, unlike the mages who must bandage their faces to keep them together.
His ears are even longer than mine or Pluto’s.
There’s an ancientness to them that rivals even that of the Sanvira.
“Seven hells,” I curse as I catch my breath, hypnotized by his glowing irises. “You… are Qor. Qor Beuton. The illustrations in The Scrolls of Aldorin were accurate.”
I hold a hand to my heart, trying to contain the overwhelming pain that now lives there, aching as though his hurt is now mine to bear.
Qor inhales deeply, nodding.
“Thank you for rousing my soul. I have long awaited this chance to speak my truth,” he says, his deep baritone resonating. “Please, sit. Get comfortable. There’s a story I must tell.”