The Elves of Cintra (13 page)

But she never saw or heard the one who finally appeared, a girl no older than herself, who was nothing of what she had expected Elves to be. The girl was tall and strong looking, not tiny and frail in the manner of tatterdemalions or what she perceived Elves would look like. One moment the forest was empty of life and the next the girl was standing there, just off to one side. Her features were unusual, but not markedly different from those of humans; her face was narrow, her eyebrows slanted, her ears pointed slightly at their tips, and her coloring fair. She wore her long blond hair tied back in a scarf, and her clothing was loose fitting and dyed green and brown like the forest itself. She carried a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped across her back and a pair of long knives belted at her waist. One hand gripped a strange-looking javelin, short and slender, a cord grip wound tightly about its center and razor-sharp metal tips fitted at both ends.

The Elf’s blue eyes swept from Angel to Ailie and back again. “A Knight of the Word and a tatterdemalion,” she declared with a small smile. “Tell me your names.”

“Angel Perez,” Angel answered, still coming to terms with the fact that Elves weren’t what she had thought they would be. “This is Ailie.”

The girl came forward a few steps. “You are the first of your order to come here, and I am guessing that you would not do so without good reason. We never reveal ourselves to humans; you aren’t even supposed to know that we exist. The tatterdemalion must have told you otherwise.”

Angel nodded. “She did. I didn’t believe her at first, but she is very persuasive.”

“I had heard there were still tatterdemalions in the world. The old ones have told me what they look like. But until today, I had not seen one.” She stared openly at Ailie for a moment, and then turned back to Angel. “You, on the other hand, carry the black staff of your order. No one who has heard of the Knights of the Word could mistake that. I am Simralin Belloruus. How did you find me?”

“We didn’t,” Angel said. “You found us.”

“But you called. You used my name. I heard you.”

“That was me,” Ailie said, managing to look slightly sheepish without changing expression. “I called you.”

Angel stared at her. “I didn’t hear you call anyone.”

Ailie nodded. “Only Simralin could hear me. And perhaps the Elves who travel with her.”

Simralin held up one hand reassuringly as Angel glanced around in alarm. “It’s all right. They were told to wait in the trees until I was certain of you. I didn’t know at first who you were.” She paused, shifting her stance but keeping her eyes on Angel. “Now that I do know, tell me what you are doing here.”

Ailie stood up, a small and inconsequential wraith against the huge forest trees. “The Word sent us,” she replied.

“The Word?” The Elf girl spoke the name softly, as if even the sound of it was sacred. “Why would the Word send us one of its Knights and a tatterdemalion?”

Ailie looked at Angel, waiting. The tatterdemalion was deferring to her now, giving over the job of explaining what had brought them. Angel sensed that Ailie understood something about the dynamics not only of their own relationship, but also of the relationship they were establishing with the Elves, that would require the Knight of the Word to take charge.

“We were sent to help the Elves find a missing talisman,” Angel said. “An Elfstone called a Loden. You must use it to take the Ellcrys from the Cintra and travel to another place. A safer place. The Word believes you are in danger of being destroyed if you stay where you are. The outside world is changing. Things are getting worse. You have a chance of surviving if you leave, and I am instructed to help you.”

Simralin Belloruus stared at her as if she were from another planet. Angel held her gaze, waiting for her response. She tried not to look at the girl’s pointed ears and slanted brows, at the curve of her facial bones. She was still coming to terms with the idea that there really were Elves in the world.

“You must take us to Arborlon to speak with your King and the Elven High Council,” Ailie added quietly.

The girl glanced at her. “Must I?” She paused, and then whistled sharply in the direction of the trees surrounding them.

A handful of figures emerged, slender and possessed of similar features, a couple of them fair like Simralin, a couple of a darker hue. There were four in all, three young men and a second girl. The girl was short and wiry, the young men of varying sizes. All were dressed in the same manner as Simralin and carried similar weapons.

“Ruslan, Que’rue, Tragen, and Praxia,” Simralin introduced them, pointing to each in turn, ending with the smaller girl. “We’re Elven Hunters, Trackers assigned to the Home Guard, returning home from a long-range reconnaissance of the human settlements east and north. We’ve been out five weeks, so you’ll forgive me for wondering how you knew to call to us just now, when we haven’t been in the area for better than a month.”

Ailie’s smile was childlike and unassuming. “I just did. I am guided by more than my own instincts.”

Simralin shook her head. “Apparently.” She glanced at the other Elves. “Did you hear what the Knight of the Word said about why they are here? About an Elfstone called a Loden?”

The other four nodded doubtfully, and Praxia said, “The Word sent a human to help Elves?”

“A Knight of the Word,” amended Tragen. He was big and broad-shouldered, his Elven features dark and sullen. “She carries a staff of power, rune-carved in the old way of Faerie.”

“Perhaps.” Praxia did not look convinced. “How do we know any of what she says is true? Are we supposed to take her word for it? Are we to allow a human into our city with nothing more than that? Are we to abandon hundreds of years of secrecy on a whim? I don’t like it.” She looked at Angel. “Why can’t we convey your message to the King ourselves?”

“Your King needs to hear the words come from me,” Angel responded, staying calm, not letting herself engage in an argument that she knew she could not win. “There will be questions, and Ailie and I are the only ones who can answer them.”

“You must let her speak before the King and the Elven High Council,” Ailie repeated. “The Word requires it.”

The Elves looked at one another. “They seem awfully certain about this,” Simralin ventured. “Perhaps with good reason. A Faerie creature traveling with a Knight of the Word—how could they have found us without divine guidance? She knew how to call to us when no one should even have known we were anywhere near. She knows about Elfstones and Arborlon and the King and the High Council. That isn’t information we generally share.”

“She knows more than she should,” Praxia declared, suspicion mirrored on her young face. She shook her head firmly and faced off against Simralin. “I don’t think we can take a chance on this. The risk is too great. I think we need to ask the King if he wishes to meet with them.”

She glanced at the other Elves. Ruslan and Que’rue, who had said nothing at all so far, said nothing now, looking first at each other and then at Simralin. “I don’t know,” said Tragen. He looked doubtful, as if sensing that something was wrong with this suggestion.

It was Simralin who put it into words. “Ailie is a messenger of the Word. Nothing can be hidden from her. If she found us so easily, she could find Arborlon, as well—whether we want her to or not.”

“We don’t know that,” objected Praxia.

“I think maybe we do.” Simralin nodded at Ailie. “Am I right, Ailie?”

“I thought it would be best if we came into the city with an escort,” the tatterdemalion replied. Her child’s features were open and frank. “We are not looking to intrude. We are here as friends, to help the Elves, not to trouble them.”

There was an awkward moment of silence as the five Trackers tried to decide how much of a threat the two intruders presented. It was impossible to read the faces of Que’rue or Ruslan. Tragen looked sullen all the time, even though his disposition seemed otherwise, and although Praxia gave no further indication about how she felt, Angel could read it in her angry eyes.

Only Simralin, perhaps because she was their leader, seemed willing to voice an opinion. “No human has entered the city of Arborlon in recorded history. It will break every rule the Elves have so carefully followed if we guide you in now. I don’t know how you will be received.”

Angel shook her head. “Our reason for coming overshadows any concerns about the reception we might expect. But if you feel strongly about this, why don’t you send someone on ahead or even go yourselves, and we will find our own way to the King.”

“That would be cowardly on our part,” Simralin said. “We would be playing a fool’s game and knowing we did so. We can’t keep you out, and there isn’t much point in pretending that we can. The best thing we can do for all concerned is to make sure you get to where you want to go and say what you want to say.”

She glanced at the other Elves, and then looked back at Angel and Ailie. “Perhaps there is a way for all of us to save a little face. If you are willing to make a small concession to protocol?” She reached behind her back and pulled scarves from a ring in her weapons belt. “Blindfolds. I expect they are pointless, but it will help blunt an obvious breach of the rules if it appears they are serving their purpose.”

She paused, a faint smile creasing her strong features. “So. Will you agree to wear them?”

She held out the scarves and stood waiting for a response.

EIGHT

K
IRISIN DRAGGED
his weary body home in the slow fading of the light, evening shadows settling in around him in deepening layers. He meandered down the trails and paths that bypassed the city and led to his home, lost in thought, the growing darkness mirroring his deep disappointment with the day’s wasted efforts.

He had been so sure they would find something.

He had met Erisha and old Culph as planned at the entrance to the Ashenell burial grounds at just past midday, excited and anxious to begin their search. But Ashenell was vast and sprawling, a forest of headstones and monuments, mausoleums and simple markers that defied any easy method of sorting out. The terrain itself was daunting, hilly and wooded, the burial sections chopped apart by deep ravines and rocky precipices that made it difficult to determine where anything was. Searching out any single grave without knowing where it was seemed impossible. Nevertheless, they had begun on a hopeful note with the older sections, the ones where members of the Cruer family were most likely to be interred. They found recognizable markers quickly enough, dozens of graves and simple headstones embedded in the ground that gave the names and dates of birth and death of members of the family. Oddly, for a family that had enjoyed such prestige and power, there were no sepulchers or tombs that could be entered. They had finished looking them over in little more than an hour and had nothing to show for it.

“Sometimes these families sent their dead back into the earth without any sort of marker at all,” Culph had observed. “Sometimes they chose to be buried apart from the family. No way of knowing. We have to keep looking until we’re certain.”

So look they did, all the remainder of the afternoon, combing the burial ground from one end to the other, searching out every grave site, gaining entry to every sepulcher and tomb, and digging up anything that might have been a Cruer marker covered over by time and nature. It was hard, exhausting work, and by the time it had grown too late to see clearly anymore, all three of them were covered in dirt and debris, hot and sweaty and sore from their efforts.

“We’ll have to leave it for today,” Culph announced, grimacing as he straightened his aching back. “We’ve covered as much as we can this day. We can try again day after tomorrow. Best I can do. We’ll meet at midday. Maybe we’ll have better luck, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

At this point, neither would Kirisin. They hadn’t searched everywhere yet; there were still large sections of the Ashenell they had failed to explore. What worried Kirisin most at this point was that Pancea Rolt Cruer, Queen of the Elves and the mother of Kings, might have decided to let the earth reclaim her and leave no mark of her passing, as Culph had suggested. If that was the case, they would never find either her or the missing blue Elfstones.

He brushed dust from his thighs and the front of his shirt and wondered how bad he looked to anyone passing by. Pretty bad, he thought. Like he had rolled in dirt and leaves. Like he had been lost in the forest.

Well, he was lost, all right. He was so lost that he was having difficulty believing he would ever be found again. The Ellcrys should have picked someone else to depend upon. All he could manage was to thrash around in the playground of the dead, wasting the one opportunity he had been given to make a difference. He kicked at the dirt pathway, furious and frustrated and scared all at the same time. Time was slipping away, he told himself. Time he didn’t have to waste.

Still muttering under his breath and cursing himself for being so stupid and worthless, aware as he did so that this wasn’t helping anything and wasn’t, in fact, even true, he passed out of the trees that fronted his home and stopped.

Someone was sitting on the steps of the veranda, leaning back against the roof support, arms resting loosely on drawn-up knees, a glass of ale in one hand. Not his father or mother. They were away for a few nights at his grandparents’ home in a small community to the south. This was someone else, someone who looked like…

He blinked in disbelief. Simralin! It was Simralin!

She saw him and waved. “Hey, Little K!” she called out, using the nickname she had given him.

“Sim!” he shouted in delight and rushed forward to greet her, bounding up the steps, throwing his arms around her, and hugging her tight. “You’re back!”

“Take it easy on me, will you? You’re crushing me!”

She laughed as she said it and hugged him back. She was strong and athletic, so it would take a lot before he could do any real damage to her. Kirisin idolized his sister in the way little brothers have idolized older sisters forever: there wasn’t anyone like her and never would be. She was six years and a lifetime of experience older than he was. More to the point, he thought her everything he wasn’t—tall and smart and beautiful. She was a Tracker of exceptional skills, well liked and respected by everyone, and was to many the kind of friend you always hoped you would find and keep.