Chapter Eleven #2
The other women continued with their work as Halithe ate in warm, comfortable silence. The Chosen stirred slightly in her chair, then settled again. Aster refilled Halithe’s mug of kavage-and-milk. She nodded her thanks, her mouth too full to speak.
As she ate, Halithe couldn’t help but shoot glances at the Chosen. There were so many old stories of elves and the Elven Kingdom of Valltera. The ears, sure, but there was something else in the lines of her face.
Latarie caught her staring. Halithe flushed and looked away, cramming more bread in her mouth.
“It’s fine,” Latarie said softly. “The Chosen is special, not just because of her dagger-star birthmark. She is one of the last of the elves. I doubt you will ever see another.”
The door opened then, and the big vore came in, with a man in tow. The vore sat by the hearth, then looked at Latarie.
“The Packmoot is gathering,” Latarie put her mug down and rose. “I must go. Aster will see you to your chamber.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Halithe expected the vore to follow, but it sat, staring at her.
“A word,” the interpreter spoke.
Halithe froze, staring at the vore.
“I am known as Fog,” the vore said. “I am the leader of the Packmoot, the guardians of Athelbryght.” An ear flickered. “I do not know what the mage has told you of us. I suspect nothing good.”
Halithe shifted on her stool.
Fog cocked his head. “We have come to understand that magic is a tool, as are my fangs, or a sword or a hammer. They can be used for good and ill, although in our lives we have seen more ill than good come of magic. The Mage Wars, as one example.”
“The Mage Wars were hundreds of years ago,” Halithe blurted out.
Fog nodded. “Yes,” he said, as if it was of no importance. “We have also learned that those that have the ability to use a tool rarely forsake it. Be it fang, sword, hammer,” Fog’s ruff swelled, “or magic.”
“I don’t understand,” Halithe pushed a bit of bread around on her plate.
“We offer a choice,” the vore said. “If you would wish it, you would be welcome within Athelbryght. A choice to leave your apprenticeship and find another path. Here, with us.”
Halithe jerked upright, clutching at her bracelet.
The vore shook his head in a very human gesture.
“No.” He was emphatic. “We would not force a choice on you. We have learned that lesson well. We but offer…” the vore tilted his head.
“We offer the freedom of true choice.” His ears perked toward the door.
“The Packmoot gathers, and I must go. Sleep well, yearling. And in the morning, choose wisely.”
With that, the vore was gone, his interpreter following.
Halithe sat in the warm silence, staring at her plate.
“Chosen, you can’t sleep in that chair all night,” Aster scolded. “Let’s get you to bed.” She looked over at Halithe and smiled. “I’ll see to her, and then we will get you settled. Finish your meal, and there’s more kavage in the pot.”
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Halithe watched as the Chosen roused and yawned and rose from her chair, trailing her blanket behind her. Aster was already holding the door for her.
Suddenly the Chosen stopped. Those eyes, deep and wise, focused on Halithe with striking clarity. “When you find your weapon,” The Chosen said. “Wield it without fear.”
“I-” Halithe started, but the moment was gone. The Chosen yawned again, and walked to the door, disappearing down the corridor with Aster.
Leaving Halithe with her plate, and her kavage, and her thoughts.
So much had happened so fast. She looked around the kitchen, warm and bright, and considered how she had gotten there.
Mourning her dead mentor, trapped in her life, then being claimed by the Guildmaster, escaping her father, finding her mentor alive.
Then pushed through a portal, and captured, sort of, and now.
…weird, elven, wise women giving cryptic advice and talking animals offering her freedom.
While she was sitting in a kitchen, eating bread and cheese and tearing at a chicken leg. It felt so odd. So disorienting. Could life change so very fast? It didn’t seem possible.
Yet here she was.
Apparently, she’d be left to make up her own mind.
Which was a first. Father had made all the decisions in her life, and then Queen Kara, and then her father again.
Then the Guildmaster had appeared like some magical being.
She had made a choice in Forterran’s carriage, but she hadn’t really had one at that point, had she?
Because going back to the Royal Court and Father was not a choice, it was a prison.
Perhaps Athelbryght wasn’t that way. She looked around the kitchen again, sensing the warmth that filled it, that wasn’t just from the fire in the hearth.
Its people seemed well cared for and there were women in authority here in ways that Halithe hadn’t seen in Edenrich.
Maybe she could find a place here, do something worthwhile, not just be an ornament or a family broodmare.
Her bracelet clinked against the table, and she pulled back her sleeve to look at it.
A tool, Fog had said, but what an amazing thing magic was.
To wield that power, to control it with her will.
The idea brought a flush of excitement. The same feeling she’d had in the alcove, with Caris, and that kiss.
She could still taste Caris on her lips.
Halithe put her hand over her breast and felt the keepsake hidden there. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—turn her back on the thrill of the possibilities. There were no guaranties, no promises, no certainty.
That was her choice.
The door opened and Aster came in, smiling. “That’s done.” she said. “Now let’s get you settled for the night.”
“For the night,” Halithe echoed.
In the morning, Halithe returned to the Great Hall with Latarie.
Ritathan was there already, standing before the High Seat, looking serene and untroubled. But Halithe saw a flash of worry in his eyes as he caught sight of her.
She gave him a strong nod, straightened her back, and walked toward him slowly, with all the grace she could muster. Her reward was the slight curving of his mouth as he nodded gravely. “Good morning, apprentice.”
“Good morning, master,” she responded and took her place, beside him and slightly behind.
The hall was filled with people and vore, clustered on either side of the High Seat. Latarie stood there, with Fog and his interpreter.
Fog gave Halithe an intent look; a shiver passed through his fur. Halithe had the impression that the vore was resigned to her choice, and yet, not surprised by it.
“The Packmoot of Athelybryght has met and reached a decision,” Latarie announced.
“We will supply you, and send you to discover what became of your key…and Dust. We will work to that mutual end, but after, you must depart and quit these lands.” She stared at Ritathan. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Ritathan said.
“Horses have been prepared, as well as supplies. All is ready for you to depart. We will see you to the start of the trail, and await your return. Bright Fang has agreed to accompany you up the path.”
“We will need an interpreter,” Ritathan said. “One who can speak—”
“Yes,” Latarie said, and gestured off to the side. “We’ve had a volunteer. Aramal?”
A man stepped out of the crowd, brown skinned, salt and pepper hair, with a strong, stocky build.
From the sudden quiet, Halithe knew that everyone in the room knew something she didn’t.
“Oh,” Ritathan said. He and the man stared at one another with the oddest looks on both their faces. No one spoke for a long, heavy moment.
It irked her no end.
“Be on your way,” Latarie said finally, breaking the impasse. “Return when you have word of our friend’s fate.”