Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (11 page)

With a return to his sober outlook, he passed
by the flowers and went around the frothy, bubbling waterfalls
without so much as one happy thought. After doing so, he noticed a
shiny bronze gate way off in the distance that towered high into
the air and then vanished behind a tall patch of trees that swarmed
with tropical birds of light sky blue, emerald green, sunlight
yellow, and neon orange hues.

Eyes glued to the shimmering bronze gate, he
barely heard the chirping birds singing sweet melodies high above
him in the trees, as he continued to follow the elves silently.

His thoughts were anything but quiet, though.
He wondered what the elves would do to him in the dungeon; he
wondered if he’d ever get out of there; he wondered if he’d ever
see Eddy and Darien again.

Pondering over these things, while trying to
avoid becoming too discouraged, Ian traipsed under the gate’s
shadow and instinctively looked up to the top of the gate where
five gatekeepers, all dressed in rustic brown cloaks, stared down
coldly at him and locked eyes with him.

Ian cringed, shocked by their rudeness, and
sunk his head down in shame mixed with raw anger. Why did his
entrance into this kingdom have to begin this way? Why couldn’t he
have been received like the party from Lord of the Rings coming out
of the mountains?

Even though he wouldn’t have wanted to be
trapped in a Lord of the Ring’s forged world, as he knew then that
he’d have to be wary of those dark wraiths, orcs, hordes of
goblins, and that evil wizard, even so, at least then he’d know the
elves would be his allies. Now, he thought of them only as
enemies....

“Announce yourselves,” one of them questioned
sarcastically, a half-formed grin on his face, breaking Ian out of
his reflections.

The elf leader shot the guard an annoyed
look. It appeared they weren’t on good terms with each other.
“Azadar Silverheart, Daeyth Silverheart, and Evlan Frostglade,
Court Herbalists, along with a human spy for Tazik named Ian
Hansen,” he replied impatiently, as if he’d been through this
routine a thousand times before. Glancing at Ian sharply, he then
returned his gaze to the guard as he added slyly, dry amusement
replacing the disgust that had been there mere moments ago, “He
also claims to have been ambushed by three Elayans in the Woods of
Zahla.”

At the word “Elayans”, Ian felt the
gatekeeper’s eyes bore into his soul like he were a wild beast, and
he forced himself to look down at the stone path in front of him.
He felt small, insignificant, like an unwanted foreigner being
chased by an angry mob; he felt the same as when Kenn had insulted
him after he’d lost to Darien at ping pong. It was a sick feeling
that made him want to gag.

“Is he from Sarith?” asked one gatekeeper in
a strong brazen voice that made Ian shiver and refocus on the
dialogue between the elves.

Seemingly amused by Ian’s worry, Azadar
folded his hands and held them a few inches above his head, shadows
shrouding his countenance. “We cannot be certain, though we have
our suspicions, for the Sarians have recently been conducting dark
business with Tazik.” An icy tenseness filled the air.

The gatekeeper cocked an eyebrow. “And how do
you know this?”

“We have our sources.” Azadar would say no
more.

Eyeing Ian with mistrust, the gatekeeper then
turned back to the speaker as if convinced by the elf’s words,
saying, “You and your companions may enter, Azadar.”
Within a few seconds, the bottom of the gate started rising up,
making a smooth wheeling sound as it did so.

Watching it, his heart pounding faster, Ian
felt a rough grip on his shirt sleeves, as the two elves spurred
him onwards. Maddened by their rudeness, he passed through the
gate, kicking a few pebbles with his socks, as throngs of elves
stopped what they were doing to stare. Youthful-looking men as well
as pretty women, young elven children as well as wise-looking
slightly older elves, all eyed him with interest as if he were the
newest exhibit at an art museum.

Blushing madly at all the attention, Ian
averted his eyes from them, as Azadar’s accusation rang in his mind
again. A spy? He’d been called a liar by his friends, a slacker by
his peers--although he didn’t think this one fair--and even a
self-conceited narcissist by his English II teacher, Betty Dane,
whatever that meant. Yet this insult was far worse. The only thing
that made it tolerable was that he knew the elves were completely
wrong about him and that someday they may thoroughly regret
handling him so roughly.

Trying to focus on this last thought, Ian
followed closely behind Azadar for about ten minutes, the two elves
still clutching his arms as if considering him a flight risk.
Eventually, they reached a tall silver gate, and as Azadar informed
the gatekeepers about their names and their mission again, they
were once again let inside.

No sooner had they entered in though, than a
stately youthful elf with thick black hair boldly stepped in front
of them blocking their path. A royal blue robe lined with bronze
stripes was draped over his shoulders, a golden tunic fastened onto
him by a silver belt hung down to his kneecaps, and silver studded
sandals clung to his feet. He fixed his hands to his sides like a
soldier. “Azadar Silverheart, the king has discovered your faulty
identification of the Verandel nobleman. He desires your presence
immediately.”

An authoritative frown flared up on Azadar’s
face, as he glanced sharply at Ian. “And what do you intend to do
wit
h him?
”

“The king will see to that,” reprimanded the
messenger, still keeping a martial temperament. “Now go.” He shooed
Azadar away, dispersed his two friends, Evlan glancing back at Ian
as if to say “I’m sorry”, and then faced Ian. He put his hand over
his heart and tapped his feet on the ground several times. It
looked like “follow me”, but Ian wasn’t certain.

Glad that at least this messenger seemed to
have some sense in him, Ian glanced over at the retreating elves as
they nimbly climbed straight up a gigantic tree and then leapt
fifteen feet onto another, landing on it with perfect agility as if
they were ninjas, before falling twenty feet onto the ground
without losing their footing and without looking at all
injured.

Hardly believing his eyes, he stood in a
daze, watching the elves’ humanly impossible speed as they bolted
away from him going at least 30 mph before shimmying up another
tall tree. Now more than ever he was glad that he hadn’t tried to
run away from them. Even with all his previous training, he knew he
was no match for these elves. He’d likely not even make it two
steps before they’d be on him.

Intrigued by their talent, he would’ve
continued staring had the messenger not stepped in front of him,
blocking his view, causing Ian to awaken out of his trance and
blink his eyes repeatedly, before refocusing on the messenger, who
still had his hand over his heart and was tapping his feet on the
ground.

After pausing slightly, Ian, recognizing that
he probably wanted him to follow him, voiced his curiosity: “So
where exactly am I going?” he asked.

The calm messenger suddenly grew alert. “How
do you know our language?”

It sounded like an accusation, so Ian
answered immediately, “Azadar gave me a ring and--”

“Enough said.” The messenger interjected,
jolting Ian with sudden annoyance, pausing as if to remember his
message. “Come with me to the baths, Ian. King Kadeth awaits
you.”

King Kadeth?
Ian thought,
shuddering
,
recognizing the name from when Azadar had spoken
it earlier. Why would the king of the elves want to meet him? Was
he simply overly curious to meet a foreigner? Or had he somehow
found out about the accusations against him?

Despite his hopes for the former, a dark
foreboding in his mind told him that this meeting was more than
just mere curiosity. No, this meeting could not go well; his name
and character were already thoroughly tarnished by Azadar’s report.
Likely, the king was only going to interrogate him briefly before
sentencing him to the dungeon.

Heart thumping heavily, Ian stirred to move,
but the elf’s disgusted look kept him as still as a statue.

As Ian stood there in suspense, the elf threw
out another command. “Take those vile things off your feet, human.
They do not belong on the path we are treading.”

Looking down at his dirty socks, he bent down
and hastily ripped them off, throwing them to the side of the road
into a thick blue bush, equally ashamed by the insult and his poor
hygiene. No sooner had he done so, than the elf took off
running.

Seeing no choice in the matter, Ian hurried
after the messenger, his bare feet treading over the hot bronze
road. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d already purposefully
strengthened his feet by running barefoot every so often, this jog
would’ve given his feet painful blisters. Now it was just slightly
discomforting.

Darting through many winding side streets,
his hardened feet being tested over the additional surfaces of
stone, wood, and marble, Ian noticed many curious eyes, dark
glaring eyes and bold prying eyes, scrutinizing him from head to
toe as if gazing upon a new specimen. All this attention made Ian
uneasy and actually angry. Didn’t the elves have better things to
do than watch a human run through their streets? Surely, they’d
encountered humans before.

Annoyed, Ian avoided their bright green eyes
as he sprinted for several more minutes, until the messenger
abruptly stopped in front of a medium-sized timber structure that
was painted a silvery blue and ran up to it, placing his hand on a
white panel at the top of the golden door. After doing so, he
waited impatiently for the door to open, the shapes of three or so
elves visible through the panel for a few seconds, before the panel
shut abruptly.

Two minutes later, after a less than
comfortable wait, with the messenger not saying anything to him,
Ian saw the door jolt open, and the owner of the place--after
chatting briefly and angrily with the messenger--beckoned for him
to step inside, to which he did quickly, hurrying into the
building, the messenger waiting behind.

Once inside, Ian was greeted with the warm
invigorating aromas of cinnamon sticks, maple blossoms, and vanilla
orchids. To his left and right were hallways and many individual
rooms with yew wood sliding doors, convincing him that this must be
the bathhouse.

As if affirming his observation, the owner
spoke, his voice both condescending and conniving. “Enter here.” He
pointed to the nearest one, a room with carved elven symbols on it,
and a violet flower on the center of it. “And take a quick bath.”
Then, sliding the door open, the elf added with cold formality,
“And change into those clothes near the bath circle; it would be a
disgrace for you to wear your old rags.”

Staring at him for a split second, Ian then
dashed into the room, slid the door shut, and bolted it, amidst the
snickering of the owner, resentful that the man would insult his
best dress shirt and favorite pair of blue jeans. What was his
problem? Was he not getting paid or something? Or was he simply mad
that a human would make use of his facilities that were likely only
for elves?

Not caring to find out, he glanced around the
room and quickly located a large circular bathtub in the center of
the room filled with clear water.

Scanning around the room for bars of soap,
shampoo, or anything else to clean himself with, he spotted eight
different colored jars on top of a red marble countertop near the
bath. Picking up an azure blue one, he examined it, but the elven
writing was indecipherable; it reminded him of Egyptian
hieroglyphics only less sensible.

Short on time, he popped open the lid and
breathed in its aromatic scent. It reminded him of a sunny meadow
flourishing with clusters of wild berries and fragrant flowers, the
sort of aroma that his younger sister Melinda would love, as she
always kept fresh flowers in her room, even in wintertime. Though
he didn’t share her tastes and was actually horrified that this
scent should be one of the options for a guy, he wasn’t going to
waste his time trying to find another more fitting scent; the elven
king had probably already lost his patience, and it was never good
to keep a king waiting.

It’ll have to do,
he thought,
blushing, as he found a soft circular blue towel on the counter
above three other colored towels, snatched it up, and placed it
near the bathtub. Removing his clothes swiftly, nearly tripping, he
slipped into the tub where his body was at once immersed in the
warm perfumed water, which felt surprisingly softer and smoother
than water on earth. If it weren’t for the strong lilac scent which
permeated the water and the time constraint he was under, he
would’ve thoroughly enjoyed it, as the bath was extremely
refreshing and strangely even made him feel like royalty, like he
were a prince.

But as it was, he had no time to spare, and
so going at a rapid pace, he washed his body and then poured the
meadow shampoo onto his head. Sticking his head underwater, he
rubbed his hair until all of the soapsuds were gone. Then, he began
drying himself off with the blue towel.

Once completely dried off, he picked up the
clothes beside the tub, noting how strange they looked. Although
he’d noticed that the elves had worn a similar type of garment, it
suddenly seemed weirder having to wear one himself. It reminded him
of a medieval garment depicted in his book for Ancient History
class.

Slipping on the green tunic--silky,
beautiful, and long-sleeved--which came down to his ankles, he
shuddered, as he immediately smelled the light floral aroma it gave
off and noticed that the tunic resembled a dress. He hated it. Was
this what male elves wore? Blushing, he peered at himself in a
large square mirror, knowing how much everyone would laugh at him
if they saw him, especially Hazel; she’d tease him forever. He
could already imagine her insults.