~ by ArgoForg ~
Fortune, Fame, and the Foolish ~ “After all, I am a traveler. And such travels must be paid for in some way.” ~ There is a stillness here in the land, a stillness more profound than the simple quiet brought by night as the light-bringer, Edhrasim, hides the great lamp of the sun and lets shadow fall over the world. It is an apprehensive silence, broken by the cool wind that whisks over the Lordless Sea and bears the high-masted ships of the Esterlaunders with their fluttering flags and full sails into the harbors of Amersk. And it seems to overcome that wind, forcing it to lapse in its cool breath. The quiet hangs over the plains of Dhe’seth to the north, over the winding road to Crossroads and further, over the cottages that dot the road to the small town of Runicvale. There it is broken momentarily by the voice of a father, finishing the tale of the Order of the White Star in a dusty, single-roomed thatch house. But even the older man can feel the silence, and as he kisses the forehead of his sleeping child and whispers good-night, he says no more, as though bowing to the quiet’s grasp. And the quiet continues on, to the north and south. It rises over the ruins of Old Tomir, stilling the voices of the clans that have taken over the former home of the Lord of Melcanth, and drops to the forest homes of the Aeri’col’quet, finding many of them stilled by another hand, all grey and cold like marble. It wafts further, to the south, to the fabled city of Maerhaven, the home of the civilized Aeris, where one of the eldest among the elves— a lord on the throne named Tarithill— raises his head and looks to the skies above the high spires of his city in apprehension. Then, with an outright display of care that causes his only daughter to look at him with surprise, he kisses her cheek and holds her close to him. He does this because he, like so few else where the silence has fallen, understands the silence: no one else— not in Maerhaven, not in Phelaria, not in Melcanth— quite realizes the significance of it for the few moments it blankets the world. And when it is gone, like a fickle springtime rain, no one save Tarithill pays it much thought. Yet he cannot help but pay it mind. He realizes that the silence is not the space between noise, or the absence of it, but in truth the silence is a sound in itself. And he realizes that once before, in his long years walking the world, he has heard such a sound— and the memory of that time causes him to shake as he embraces his almond-eyed daughter. For Tarithill, like no one else still alive, realizes that it is the sound of the gods holding their breath. The eyes stared at him again— feminine eyes, wide but accusing. They stared for a long time at him, never blinking, never moving; just accusing him with no words whatsoever. He felt as though he shriveled beneath the gaze, felt as though the eyes stripped him bare and laughed at his discomfort while he could do nothing about it. And then came the voice, although it wasn’t the voice he remembered going along with those eyes. “Enough, Vance. I tald ye, shove off. S’ almost th’ witchin’ oor.” Rafael Vance raised his muzzy eyes from his winecup, slowly letting them shake the glaze away and focus on the burly man that had spoken. The man was currently triplets, but Rafe believed the one who spoke was the one in the middle. Vance shrugged again and then pushed back an errant few strands of greasy blonde hair from his eyes and scratched at his unshaven cheek before answering the giant in the middle. “M’fine,” he said, which was a step away from a lie. His tongue felt thick and fuzzy in his mouth, and his stomach was lurching in the way it usually did around this time of night. He’d really only heard his name in the barkeep’s voice. The rest was a muted jumble. Mumble Vance. Mumblemumblemutter. Mumblemumblesomethingmumble. Hardly anyone called him by his first name anymore. Hardly anyone called him much of anything anymore, save vagrant and drunkard. Rafe had been known to snort derisively at the names and then go right on drinking, losing himself again in the wash of alcohol. Anything to escape the dreams. “Ah’m gettin’ damned t’ sick of this, Vance,” the large man responded, cleaning a cup that his oversized hands dwarfed. His name was Junius. His friends called him Big June, and that was a gross understatement; in his less hazy days, Rafe believed there was ogre blood somewhere in his heritage. He was tall and wide, but very little of it was fat, even at his age. He was a surprisingly friendly soul, however, in that manner that bartenders often were— although that was an oddity in a place so roughneck as the bar named The Trough, or in a place so seedy as the Shades, the underbelly of the city of Camyrleigh. In fact, it was probably his appearance alone that forestalled many fights. One look at barrel chest of the barkeep usually did it— one look at Big June’s stout shoulders and thick, ugly face whose bristly black beard and eyebrows were interrupted by a scar that ran from forehead to chin. Often even the most obnoxiously drunk of patrons would think twice before causing trouble with him behind the bar. That suited Junius fine; if they gave him no trouble, he gave them none. If Rafe knew whether he was close to giving Junius any trouble, however, he made no sign of caring. He slowly managed another shrug and found his gaze being drawn back to his winecup, to stare at the liquid within. His tongue sounded a little less thick now that he’d managed to move his head around. The painlessness of drink never lasted long anymore, it seemed. “So get a new trade, June.” “Not this job,” Junius said, setting the cup down on the bar with an abrupt clunk. “Ah mean ye. Gettin’ drunk an’ passin’ oot at me bar at closing. S’ old. Ah’m not yer ma. Ye get yerself home tonight, y’hear?” “Yeah.” Rafe murmured. His lips curling upward hopefully. “One more for the road, then?” “Nah. Ye’ve had too much as ’tis. Lookit ye. Ye’re a fookin’ slob. When’s th’ last time ye changed yer clothes?” Rafe wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “You sure sound like my mother, talking like that.” “Ah mean it.” Junius’ thick face turned thoughtful. Or at least, as thoughtful as it ever got, which meant it didn’t look complacently happy or ready to break things in two. “Ye used t’ get around, Vance. Ye used t’ have stories from all over th’ map. Now all ye see is th’ inside o’ a cup.” Rafe looked down at the cup, saw the bit of wine still remaining in there, reflecting pinkish red in the light. Almost lavender. Almost the color of… No, please, don’t think on that now. He shook his head. “I got old, June.” “Bullshet.” The noise almost sounded like a sneeze from the large barkeep. “Ye’re barely thirty.” “Thirty’s old.” Rafe chuckled, a ragged sound. “Ta dogs, it is.” His voice, unexpectedly, softened, and his small eyes seemed to actually gain a bit of pity. “Ah seen th’ look in yer eyes, Rafael. Not here; here’s jus’ thieves an’ con-men an’ petty types. But Ah seen tha’ look in the face o’ a man what stabbed his wife. Th’ haunted look. An’ ye have it.” Rafe looked at Junius for a long time, and then a smile came to the blonde man’s face. “Nah. Sorry to disappoint you, June. You’re seeing lack of sleep in my eyes. Think I’ll take your advice for once and pass out at my house rather than here at the bar.” He laid a thick silver piece on the bar and smirked. He imagined for a moment he looked remarkably like the old Rafael Vance— with the exception of the dingy, crumpled tunic, the unwashed hair, the unshaved face. He left that impression as he turned and made his way toward the door of the Trough, keeping his steps remarkably steady. “I’ll be seeing you, June. Probably tomorrow.” “Vance.” He stopped, glanced back. Junius was gazing at him intently. “If Ah’m wrong, then why did ye quit th’ game?” Vance smiled, thinly. The game. How enchanting was it to think of the thievery— and worse— that he used to sink to as just that, a game. He shrugged, offhandedly. “I met a woman.” That the barkeep understood. He nodded his large head, smiled in a well-meaning manner. “Mus’ be quite a woman, t’ take ye from th’ game.” Rafe’s smile faded, and his eyes glazed again as he opened the door to the darkness of the roadway. “I wouldn’t know. I lost her.” And Rafael Vance left the large man to mull that over as he stepped out into the dark cobble street, pretending he would go home and go to bed. Pretending, in other words, that he wouldn’t dream of that golden-blonde hair, dream of those exotic lavender eyes, of her soft skin. Pretending that he wouldn’t hear her screams in his ears as the beak of the creature touched her slender ankle and the lavender of her eyes faded into the cold white of alabaster. Rafe swore softly as he made his way down the darkened city street toward his small house. He could pretend all he wanted, but the voice in his head was hers, calling him a traitor. And it spoke true, he knew. Junius had seen it in his eyes. Rafe had laughed it off, but he was sure the larger man knew. He may never have stabbed a wife, but he had done something so similar that it was no surprise it preoccupied him. He lived in the past, now, constantly replaying the short minutes following the accusation in the lavender eyes and melodic voice of a wilder elf, reliving a job he’d done almost ten years ago. He hadn’t stopped traveling and thievery because he was old, but because he was troubled by those memories to the point that he was no longer the confident and self-assured man he’d once been. A light misting rain began to fall over Rafe as he opened the door to his small hovel and felt the memories overtake him again. The fire lighting in her eyes as she realized Rafe for what he was. The cockatrice pecking at her ankle. The soft flesh being turned into hard white stone, the wine-colored eyes becoming blank white orbs. The look of horror etching itself forever on her face. The cavalier manner that her loincloth was slit from her, leaving her bare and helpless and… Damnation. Rafe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He had a couple more bottles of harder stuff at his bedside table— bitterly sour stuff, rotgut. He opened up a bottle anyway and drank as the rain outside began to fall harder, pattering on the thatch roof of his home. He drank almost half the bottle before he finally could settle on his unmade cot and pass out into a sleep that he only wished was dreamless. Junius was more right than he could know: Rafael Vance was indeed haunted. Haunted by the knowledge that he was directly responsible for turning the most beautiful woman he’d ever known into a statue of solid stone. Tyler Silverhorn glanced up, after-images of the flickering flame dancing in his vision and temporarily masking the woman. He blinked the green-orange glare away, and saw the deep blue eyes studying him intently. Eide’mera was sitting cross-legged, letting the firelight illuminate the book of prayers she kept on her lap. She wasn’t looking at it, though; she was pinching her lower lip softly, as though she’d been regarding him for some time before actually giving voice. “No more thoughtful than usual,” Tyler said with a shrug. He picked up the makeshift spit-stick that lay next to his discarded leather armor and poked at the fire, sending a flutter of red-orange embers skyward. He didn’t bother pointing out the fact that— like usual— her assessment was right. Eide’mera was perceptive like that; a trait that served her well as she studied to become a priestess of Arianna. “Which means deeply thoughtful,” she said with a small smile, then closed the book and raised a delicate eyebrow to him. “Anything worth talking about?” “No. I mean, I really appreciate you trying to buck me up, Eide’mera— ” he began. “Mera.” She interrupted, her voice taking only a slight crossness to its tone. He flushed, knowing she preferred to be called that. She’d told him on occasion that her father was a stickler for formality and thought the nickname was childish. She, on the other hand, thought her full name sounded like it belonged on some dour old noblewoman. “Mera. Sorry. But… well, really, I’m just dwelling over the same old thoughts. You know… stupid things.” Tyler poked at the fire again, this time with a little more force. Her eyes followed the rising trail of cinders and then fell back onto him. Mera was four years older than he, although many thought she was younger, based on her looks. Her dark blue eyes were contrasted by fair hair and a bright, youthful face— a pretty face, he thought, not yet lined by age or worry. Her body was lean and willowy, which lent to that misconception, although she filled out the breast of her cassock and showed womanly curves when she belted her robes about her waist. She wasn’t the showiest of women, but she was a far cry from being plain. She was also a classic example of woman with a deceptively soft and pretty exterior; anyone who judged her on her looks alone was seeing only the cover of the book. Mera often showed a wisdom that was often far beyond her young years. She was prone to introspection, approaching a problem from many angles before deciding on a course of action. She was granted powers of curing by her steadfast devotion to the goddess Arianna, the Mistress of love and healing. Nor was she one to be taken lightly, physically— oroc and goblyn-kin alike had felt the hard metal of her flail. She’d befriended Tyler from the moment he joined their small troupe, and for his part, Tyler had been glad to find someone to help him acclimate himself to life on the roads and wilds of Melcanth. He couldn’t have asked for a more understanding teacher than Mera: she was patient, kind and personable. She was also very intuitive, and had quickly gotten such a feel for him that she could almost complete his sentences. She could read him almost as easily as the book of prayers she often studied, which he was sure she was doing now. Mera stood slowly and made her way around the fire to him, sitting down again and tossing her hair free of the collar of her robes, so that it fell over her shoulder like a winding river of white gold. She fixed him with a meaningful gaze. “What difference are we making, in other words?” After a long pause, Tyler felt his brown eyes break the gaze and find the flickering campfire again. For a moment he felt far younger than the eighteen years he’d walked the world. “Sort of. What are we doing?” “I assume you mean besides sitting around a fire, talking, while you should be resting and I should be keeping watch,” she said, a bit of mirth in her voice. But at his seriousness of his face, her chuckles subsided. “Keeping the roads safe from wandering bands of highwaymen and beings that would do harm to travelers.” “When was the last time we ran into a ’wandering band’ of anything, Mera?” The way Mera’s eyes flicked to the ground momentarily and she smoothed out her cassock showed he’d scored a point. “A couple weeks, I suppose.” “And before that, even longer.” Tyler unhitched his scabbard from his belt and held it reverently before him, glancing at the simple burned etchings in the leather. He touched the hilt and guard of the sword, the designs tooled into both. Both sword and scabbard were relatively unadorned, and what decoration they did have was fairly unimaginative— simple inlaid loops and swirls, some ending in heraldic leaves. But both were his. He’d worked night and day for months to earn a sword to call his own. Mera said nothing, just watched him. “You know I’ve always wanted to be a hero, right, Mera?” He said slowly. But once out, the words refused to be called back, and they just kept coming to him. He looked up, out into the darkness beyond the campfire’s light. “I’ve always wanted to be a great warrior, like Yuric or Kethelmaine. To make a difference, be sung about in songs and lore. My father always told me stories, and those… those shaped me. The Quest of Valinor for the Dragonsword. The Adventures of Gallant Three. Abbatine and the Company of the Golden Dagger besting the wizard Cronale in his labyrinth. I saw myself in those tales… it’s what made me learn to use a sword in the first place. “But out here, there’s nothing, Mera.” He glanced back at her, sure he could feel frustration welling itself into mistiness in his eyes. He felt her hand on his back, a touch meant to comfort, beneath the short ponytail of brown hair she referred to as a Sailor’s Knot— she said Tyler tied his hair back the same way sailors in Reyarse did to keep their hair out of their eyes in the still salt breezes. “There aren’t any quests, not anymore. There are trailblazers and bounty hunters and soldiers and bodyguards. But there aren’t any quests; there aren’t any adventures. No one shows up in Gettis and says that he needs brave men to stem the advance of the Kobold King. No one talks about lost artifacts or legendary voyages to retrieve them. There aren’t any heroes anymore. It’s like… like…” “Like myth has given way to history,” Mera interposed softly. Her blue eyes had become sympathetic, as if she had suddenly forced a young child to accept some horrible truth. “Tyler, those deeds… those stories… are all from hundreds of the years in the past. Yuric and Valinor and Abbataine were all were long dead ages ago, if they lived at all.” “Not all of the stories are that old.” Tyler said with quiet stubbornness. Kethelmaine lived when my father was a boy. Even the Tales of the Order of the White Star were recent up till a few years ago… I don’t know… I just thought my life would be more like theirs. That’s all I wanted.” “Rescuing fair princesses and fighting wars on horseback, you mean? Waking every morning to find a new challenge awaiting you, freeing every town you stop at from some long-forgotten curse?” Mera patted his back and then let her hand fall. Her smile reappeared, more pensive now. “You’re certainly driven, Tyler. Maybe someday you’ll find your adventures. But in the meantime, exactly how long have you been a part of the Circle of Daggers?” Tyler flushed. “Since the last of Bleakmont. Almost five months.” And then, he thought, against some of the troupe’s better judgment. Of the two warriors in the group, the crop-haired brunette Rochelle said she thought Tyler looked too clumsy and far too inexperienced. Jessamine, the daughter of a semi-famous mage who was studying magic herself, bluntly said he’d soil himself at their first battle. Nina, a straw-haired girl his age who called herself a ’lifter’, had voted him in— but he later found out she commented that she did so because she thought he might be good for a roll in the grass on the colder nights. The other warrior-type, Steingard, voted him in as well, but based solely on the fact Tyler was male and Steingard had long been vocal about how the group needed to even up the male-female ratio. Which left Eide’mera to break the stalemate, thankfully. “You’re still relatively inexperienced, Tyler. That’s not a mark against you or anything, just a statement of fact. For that matter, so am I: I’ve barely been with the Circle two years. But I know the excitement comes and goes.” Mera looked at him and the edges of her lips turned up in a slight grin. “Do you think in all her time with the Order of the White Star, Lady Renee never once had a slow period where she could just sit back and take a breath between her adventures? How do you know this just isn’t that sort of time for us?” “I don’t.” Tyler admitted. He was inexperienced, he knew. He was barely eighteen, and although he was tall and hardy, he was still lacking the work with the sword to make his body as hard and muscular as Steingard, and he wasn’t nearly agile enough to weave a thin blade around an opponent’s defenses like Rochelle. Even though Jessamine and Mera still studied and Nina was his own age, they all still had an aura of expertise he couldn’t match. He sighed softly. “I just never thought it would be like this, that’s all. I expected glory, I guess. Adventure. Intrigue. Guarding the road against the orocs for five silver an ear is a job. It’s not adventure.” He looked at her, saw that she was looking beyond him, into the darkness beyond the circle of light caused by the flickering fire. He started to turn to follow her eyes. “Don’t.” She cautioned, quietly, then her deep blue eyes flicked back to his and held them there. “What— ?” He started, a furtive whisper, but she shook her head in slow, measured movements. “Someone is out there. Just one person, I think. Keep talking,” she murmured, and then giggled lightly, as though he’d said something clever. Tyler coughed and began to talk about what came to mind. He began to ramble through everything he’d been through since he’d first decided to become a swordsman, all the odd jobs, all the hours practicing. But as he did, his own eyes roamed the darkness beyond the campfire, to the opposite side she was looking. He could barely make out the line of the horizon or the shadows of the few nearby trees; the moon was a new one, and spared no light. How had she seen anyone in such pitch-blackness? His hand closed lightly on the hilt of his sword. When he looked back, her eyes were closed, and her lips were moving silently. He nodded to himself: she was beseeching the goddess Arianna through prayer, preparing a spell. It had taken him a while to get used to that. The first time he’d seen Mera doing that it had thrown him— she’d knelt next to him after a goblyn’s blade had bitten painfully into his arm, but rather than placing herbs or a bandage on the wound, she’d merely wrapped it loosely with a piece of cloth and then started whispering to herself. Tyler had nearly thought her mad until she raised her head and touched the arm and— invoking Arianna’s name— healed the wound instantly, leaving not so much as a scar behind. She later told him that her prayers were how she channeled Arianna’s blessings— often given through the form of spells— through herself. Mera’s eyes opened, and then she stared into the darkness again. She looked at Tyler and smiled, again as though they were talking about something else. Then she leaned to him, placing a warm, slender hand on his cheek, and murmured again— more of the act. “He broke the line of wards we placed around the campsite. But it’s just one person, coming very near. He has gall, whoever he is. Laugh, Tyler. Your face is grim as a troll’s breath.” Tyler chuckled, loud enough to be heard, and considered pressing the act along— maybe touching his forehead to hers, putting his hand on hers— but he really had no idea what would be the best way to proceed. In that, your inexperience probably shows more than in your sword-handling. He settled for leaning close to her ear, whispering: “Did the goddess grant you a boon?” Her smile was evident in her voice. “Two. When I say now, he is in the direction of Steingard. Shade your eyes, all right?” He nodded, pulled back, looked at her for a long moment, staring into those deep blue eyes, feeling his pulse begin to quicken. Not with desire, despite their closeness, but with anticipation. “Now, Tyler!” She hissed. And then the next words he heard come from Mera’s mouth were solemn ones, a benediction. “Blessed Goddess, Arianna, give your servant the blessing of your radiance; to cast back the veil of darkness in Your name!” Tyler had already spun from her and let the leather scabbard fall to the ground, baring his blade as he quickly moved in the direction of Steingard’s snoring form, a few yards from the fire. He leapt over the big man, who didn’t so much as stir: the big man had been known to be able to sleep through thunderstorms. As he did, he shaded his eyes with his free hand as she’d told him to. Tyler had heard her use such an invocation before, and knew— to some extent— what to expect. Their attacker didn’t. That much was apparent at that moment, when the ball of light first flared above their heads. It came into being as a soft, sedate glow and then, in one bright flash, it grew brighter and brighter until— within moments— the nighttime countryside around the two of them was lit like noonhour. Tyler winced as the light washed over them, quickly trying to blink away the sudden disorientation of pitch night becoming bright as daylight in an instant. Shielding his eyes somewhat had helped, however. He was far less disoriented than his quarry. He had been crouching, and when the first hints of illumination came, Tyler saw him stand and fit an arrow to the bow he was carrying. And then came the flash of light, and Tyler noticed the blurry form of the attacker staggering, and then making the mistake of looking up at the light’s source. The attacker then made a pained noise, momentarily blinded by the spell of light, and swung the bow up in an arc, drawing the bowstring back. By that time, Tyler had closed the distance, crunching through the tall grass. He was lifting his sword when the after-images began to clear and the voice their attacker had used finally sifted through the addled layers of his mind. He— his assailant— wasn’t a he at all. He was a she. She had hair with a slight curl to it; in the light it looked a shade lighter than a fawn’s coat, far lighter than the buckskin halter and skirts she wore. A pair of long, notched white feathers dangled from the curls, fluttering about as she shook her head to clear her vision, and from between the wild strands, he could see the pointed tips of her ears. She was a head shorter than he, and seemed lean— even slight— compared to him, but the muscles of her arms were taut as they held the bowstring and her tanned legs were both toned and apparently sturdy. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of armor, and other than the bow and a dagger at her side she was unarmed. She made another low gasp as she apparently realized how close he’d come to her, and yet it didn’t sound shrill or girlish to Tyler’s ears. There was almost a melody to it. And when she opened one eye and squinted the other, aiming again at him, he was struck by how green it was. And with the sound, the thought came to him all at once. I’m attacking a girl. His eyes widened, and his charge began to die, a warrior’s cry falling stillborn in his throat. He began to skid to a halt. It was at that point that his faltering legs chose to find a patch of dew in the high grass of the field and his soft-soled boots came out from beneath him. He spilled to the ground in a heap, and only years of practice holding onto his sword kept it from tumbling from his grip to the grass beside him. But he could only lie prone before her, and as she dropped the arrowhead to follow him, he still was unable pry his eyes from her. Her face was a soft sun-darkened oval against the glare of the magical light, and her cheekbones were high but gentle. There was something about her— an odd contradiction of strength and softness, of uncultured wildness and feminine delicacy— that he found himself unable to do anything but stare at her in wonder. He could see her jaw set and re-set itself, and in a slow, hazy moment, Tyler began to realize that she was either unwilling to shoot him, or she was trying to steel herself to the idea. The wide arrowhead did not glint in the bright light— it was stone-crafted, primitive like her clothing. It shook, ever so slightly, but remained pointed at his chest, at his heart. Yet she didn’t release it. Slowly, her other eye opened, forest-green, and her gaze locked on him for a second that felt like an eternity. He could see a shimmer form in her eyes, as though they’d turned to liquid, then she clenched them shut and her jaw set once more. And then, with more fluidity and grace than he’d thought possible, she turned from him, took a quick step back the way she’d apparently come. “Wait,” he croaked, surprised that he was even capable of words. For a moment, it seemed the word halted her. She glanced back at him and once more their eyes locked, but now the shimmer began to fade from them, replaced by something else. It was as if she was giving him acknowledgement, maybe even a degree of respect from one warrior to another, but nothing more. And then she began to take flight. But for her, that momentary hesitation had been costly. “Arianna, Matron of Love and Healing, hear my call!” Mera’s voice sounded from behind him, clarion in the quiet of the night. He hadn’t known she had followed him from the campfire. “Grant your servant the power to halt our attacker’s flight!” At first Tyler thought that voice apparently got her attention, as well, for the wilder girl stopped short. But it became apparent that wasn’t the case, as she uttered a soft cry of surprise and dropped her bow and arrow. Her arms dropped stiffly to her sides and her legs locked themselves tightly together. For a long moment, she stood there, rigidly, as though a giant, invisible fist was gripping her tightly, holding her stock-still. And then her momentum caught up with her and she toppled over to the ground. She never once moved a muscle or uttered a sound. Tyler glanced back to the priestess, who stepped into the circle of light, nodding. “A Hold spell,” she explained. “One of the more useful spells around. She’ll be like that for a little while. Do you know her?” “No.” Tyler shook his head and pulled himself to his feet, then trudged through the grass to the girl’s side. She lay there, her arms stiff at her sides, legs together, like a carved wooden figure. Her fawn-colored hair rustled slightly when he dropped to the grass next to her, but other than that, there was no movement whatsoever from her. He turned her over, found himself staring at her again in wonder. Her eyes were wide and glazed— and for the first time, he noticed, there was a slight, exotic slant to their almond shape. A confused, maybe even stunned, expression was screwed onto her face: her slender lips were parted, looking as though they were starting to form an ’O’. But she was still entrancing, perhaps even moreso than he’d first thought. “She can still hear and see us, Tyler. The spell merely holds her from moving in any manner.” Mera said softly, and knelt down next to him. She gazed at the girl for a long time, considering. “She’s not from around here. Not any of the cities, anyway.” Tyler slowly parted the hair and lifted it, to reveal her ears. Her hair felt no different than human hair— although it was far finer, softer than his own. He shook that thought off, feeling Mera’s thoughtful eyes turn to him. You’re acting like a schoolchild, Tyler. He glanced at her, turned up a small, wry smile. “So I gathered.” “Aeris.” She said, looking at the girl as though her eyes had never wandered. “I’ve heard stories, but I’ve never met one. They tend to keep their distance from us. Some stories even say they withdrew themselves from mankind.” He let the hair fall back in place over her ear, gazed at her again. Those green eyes seemed to draw him in, even glassy as they were. “Aeris?” “Elves. A wilder elf, by the look of it. What could have brought her here?” Tyler pried his gaze from the Aeris girl’s, looked back at the campfire, where he could make out a couple forms rousing, belatedly, at the noise. Doubtlessly Steingard was still asleep. “We’ll have to find out.” “So I gathered,” Mera grinned, and Tyler recognized his own words, casually thrown back to him. The banter was back; the rush of the battle and the slight fear of losing his life had gone, as it did slowly after every fight, giving way to the ease of knowing he was safe and would live another day. He smiled in response to her, a smile that faded only when he really began to think about it. The battle was over. Mera would have told him if they were still more foes hidden by the darkness. And even when the Aeris had been a finger’s grip away from putting an arrow into his chest, he hadn’t really given it much pause for thought. It was battle. So why was it that now, in the calm afterward, he could still feel his heart hammering? †‡†
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