Chapter Thirteen: Where the Heart Is

Chapter Thirteen: Where the Heart Is

                        Arcaena slipped out the door of Deyann’s house, Carsten close behind her. In the days since they had left their prison, Carsten had done his best to trim his ever-growing beard and hair. Even so, he did not look well, having just awoken from a whole week of sleep. The dark elf gestured for him to follow.

            “It is over here,” she told him. “There is a small ridge on the east side of the town where no one goes. Come on.” He followed her, trying his best to keep pace. She was moving remarkably quickly for having just gotten up yesterday. Still, she was on her feet, so there was a bright spot to being left behind. They passed many of Haven’s wooden huts as they moved, but Carsten did not see them as so small and rustic now. From inside, he could hear voices, some tense or sorrowful, but most nonchalant or even happy. These people had next to nothing, Carsten realized, but they had given of what little was theirs to help people they barely knew. Further, they seemed not to notice their state in relation to the rest of the world. In this, it seemed, they had found happiness and peace. Now, the houses seemed to be spaced farther apart, and the stockade around the village seemed to bow outward. At its very edge was a small, but noticeable knoll, which rose high enough that one could see over the walls and into the world beyond. Arcaena smoothed her dress and sat in the grass, and Carsten joined her. Almost reflexively, their hands intertwined, and they sat together in silence for several minutes, waiting for the sun and enjoying each other’s company.

            The dark elf noticed something immediately about Carsten’s hands. They were rough to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. To her surprise, she felt his head resting against her shoulder, though again, she was not altogether displeased by the sensation. The sun had not yet risen, but a few pioneering rays had already superseded the mountains in the distance.

            “It is truly a sight to behold,” she whispered. “I never noticed how beautiful a sunrise truly is.” Carsten nodded.

            “It is,” he said. “The problem with appreciating nature is that, in life, you rarely have the time or energy to do so, after the world has finished throwing its worst at you.”

            “We came through all right,” Arcaena remarked, squeezing his hand. Carsten closed his eyes and sighed.

            “Barely,” he told her. “And that was perhaps more of luck than merit. I still have no idea how it happened. By rights, I should never have made it out of that prison, much less here with you and the others.”

            “The fact remains that you did,” the dark elf pointed out. “You are alive, and there is no regret to be had in it.” She was silent for several seconds, pondering everything that she had seen and heard in the days since their escape from the sorceress’ castle. Then, she decided to ask a question. “In five years, where do you expect to be?” Carsten looked up at her.

            “What?”

            “In five years,” she repeated. “What do you think you will be doing, and where?” The dwarf sighed.

            “I do not know,” he said finally. “I have nowhere to turn, really. Everywhere I go, I am a new, unfamiliar face, and the only place I am not an outsider is the only place I cannot go.”

            “Where would you want to go, if you could?” She asked.

            “In all honesty,” he replied, “staying here sounds like the best thing for me. What about you?”

            She looked down, turning her sapphire pendant over and over in her hands.

            “In truth, my future seems more straightforward,” she said. “My father expects me to become his archetypal daughter; beautiful, graceful, refined, and dignified. I am to be queen, and he sees it as his duty to shape me into his image of an ideal leader.”

            “Well,” Carsten remarked, “you have three of the four down pat. The last should not take that long for you to develop.”

            “No,” Arcaena said, “you do not understand. He wants me to be that, but nothing else. The woman that he sees me becoming has no room for anything unforeseen. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

            “Hold on,” Carsten said. “Are you saying…”

            “I am saying that I no longer care what my father has for me to do,” Arcaena said. “I will be the queen he wants me to be, but the queen does not mold the woman. Rather, it is the other way around. As for where I will spend my time…well, barring my father disowning me for telling him how I feel, I will live the rest of my days at home in our capitol. If you want it, the army’s auxiliaries had several open spots the last time I heard. Someone as skilled as you should have little trouble getting them to take you on.”

            Carsten said nothing, but he felt like he was being ripped apart inside. Part of him wanted to go with her, to take this position, do anything that would keep him close to her. Even so, he could not shake the feeling that this was where he was meant to be. “I…I would like that,” he said hesitantly. “If it were possible.”

            “You think it is not?” She asked.

            “I would hesitate to say definitively today what will be,” he answered. “Look around us; the whole world is different than it was less than nine months ago.”

            “Still, you can dream,” she admonished. “You should keep that in mind, Carsten. Honestly, I would really appreciate it if you would smile a bit more and brood a bit less.” He nodded, a slight grin twisting his lips upward.

            “All right,” he said. “If you insist.” And, with that, they both remained quiet and watched the sun come up.

            Haven

            Mycal’s house

            “Come again?” Rolf asked. “You say I am what?”

            “You’re a Therian,” Mycal repeated, trying to remain patient. “You, like me, and like so many of our brothers, have the power to change your shape. In your case, you are capable of taking the form of a wolf. The size and strength of the Therian’s beast form is dependent on their skill at changing shape, which comes with practice.”

            “So how do you…”

            “Take on the beast?” she finished. Rolf nodded. “I cannot say. It’s different for each Therian. For some, it’s memories of parents and loved ones that bring the animal to the fore, a positive memory. For others, anger or pain can bring out the beast. For you, though, I think it might be simple focus. If you can find the point at which nothing else clouds your mind, I believe you’ll unlock your abilities.”

            The gray-haired man lowered his eyes. “Do you…do you think I could still stay here? Is that offer still open?” Mycal nodded.

            “You and your friends are welcome as long as you want to stay,” she answered. “We might not have much, but we’ll share what we have with you.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Rolf asked. “You owe us nothing, after all.”

            “That’s not quite true,” the golden-haired woman replied. “You’re one of us, a Therian. We couldn’t be happier to see one of our own come back to us. But also, you’re mostly Outlanders. If we don’t stick together and help each other out of tight spots, who’s going to stand for us?” She reached inside her fur-lined dress and fished out her own wolf medallion. “Like you, I’m a wolf. There are a few bears in the village and one family of dragons, but the rest of the Therians are wolves.”

            “About that…” Rolf said. “The raiders we fought had wolf mounts that were much larger than any I have ever seen, and they had marks on them that resembled the head on the wolf necklace.” Mycal sat up, her eyes suddenly alert.

            “What?” she asked. “Are you certain of this?”

            “Yes,” he replied. “I even found a wolf pendant worked into the collars they wore.” Rolf reached into his belt, extracted the collar in question, and handed it to her. Mycal took the item and examined it closely, her eyes narrowing as she did so.

            “This…changes things,” she said. “Rolf, until we know more about this, I’m afraid I need to ask you to stay with us here in Haven.”

            He nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”

            Deyann’s Home

            Arcaena and Carsten finished watching the sunrise and returned to the house, which they did their best to clean up. Carsten neatly folded the still-rumple bedrolls and washed the dark elf’s cookware in the bucket of water he had provided. Arcaena took the clean dishes and stacked them in the barrels that Deyann used, and she put the spoons back in beside them. After they had finished making the place look at least presentable, Carsten asked, “Where did you put my sword?” Arcaena pointed to one of the packs in the southeast corner of the house.

            “Over there,” she replied. “It is behind the bags, and you should have little trouble getting to it.” He nodded and went over to the backpacks, which he moved until he found the weapon. He took the sword about an inch out of its sheath, just to have another look at the blade. That was when it hit him; the weapon was not forged of steel, but shilthain. Quickly, he snapped the weapon back into the sheath and turned around, trying not to think about what that and the words now permanently graven on his wrist meant. He had read the script the second it appeared, and he still wondered exactly why it had appeared. The script was not difficult to read; although ancient, Carsten’s father had taught him to read Kortish calligraphic writing, and thus he could read the word now seared into the flesh of his right arm: WORTHY.

            “I cannot help but wonder why you tried that stunt with the sword,” Arcaena told him. “Part of me thought you might have rather killed the dragon.” Carsten shook his head.

            “To what purpose?” He asked. “The beast is hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years old. Its hide grows with every year of life; if a dragon that size could not be slain that young, it is doubtful that it could be done now in its old age.”

            The dark elf nodded. This made sense to her; after all, her family had had its share of run-ins. In fact, it was in one of these confrontations that her mother had been killed, burned to death by a dragon’s fiery rage. Tywana’s death had left an indelible scar on her father’s psyche as well as her own; being the oldest of her sisters, and the most mature, she had been called upon to act as de facto mother to them. Parenting was not exactly one of her gifts, and she still remembered long nights spent trying to instruct her sisters in proper spell-casting, posture, and needlework. By day, she had taught them archery, swordplay, protocol, legal syntax and diplomacy, and preparation for formal occasions at the palace.

            “How many siblings do you have?” She asked abruptly. The question came out of her mouth before she could stop it. While her mind had been on the subject of family, it had seemed like a logical next step to ask Carsten about his. Now, she wondered whether or not she was just making small talk.

            “Four,” Carsten answered. “One sister, three brothers. All of them stone-tough and extremely sharp. You?”

            “Two sisters,” Arcaena replied. “My first sister, Miera, is a better shot than me, and has absolutely no regard for formal interaction whatever. Eyna, my youngest sister, deigns all physical engagement, preferring the intricacies of court interaction to the ebb and flow of battle’s tides.”

            Carsten nodded. “And your parents?”

            “My father, Oriem, is a good king. A bit impulsive, I grant, and a worrier of great skill. Still, he is truly a good parent. He had to be; after all, he is the only one we have left.”

            “What happened to your mother?” Carsten asked.

            “Oriem was the second son of the House of Blackfire, not the first,” Arcaena explained. “He married young because he did not expect to be in line for the throne. His wife was an Airknight from the Sky Brigade named Tywana Ironeye. Within months of his coming of age ceremony, they were wed. Within two years, I was born, and another baby was on the way in four. By six years of marriage, they had already had three children. It was in the seventh that my mother died. What happened was simple; the current king, his eldest son, and the captain of the guard took the Airknights out into the field to kill a dragon that had been troubling the countryside. It turned out that it was not one dragon, but many. The king, in a moment of haste, charged the beasts. He never had a chance; the first slew him with a single strike from its bladed tail. The prince killed the beast, but another killed him with a blast of fire. Of the seven Airknights that left that day, two returned. My mother was not one of them; there were too many dragons, and she fell trying to get another knight to safety.”

            “That is horrible,” Carsten said. Hearing Arcaena’s tale made him feel all the worse for the joy he drew from having a family that was both whole and happy. “Your father must have been devastated.”

            “He was,” the dark elf answered. “In one day, he had gone from happily married nobleman to royal widower. He has spent the nineteen years since doing his utmost to prepare us for the roles that he expects us to play, and any others that we might be forced to take on. That loss made him cold, reclusive, and calculating. Even so, he has feelings, and they sometimes break through the chill armor he wears. He is a good man; I just wish he would remember it a little more often.”

            Carsten shrugged. “I can see how he might become so. Speaking of family and home…” he paused. “When did you want to leave?”

            “Today is the last day in the week,” she informed him. “I had planned to leave in the middle of the next. How does that suit you?”

            “It suits me just fine,” he answered. “Have you asked the others about it?”

            She nodded. “They are all fine with the plan. As long as you are, we will plan on beginning the final leg of our journey then.”

            Haven

            Market

            Edessat and Thomas were following Arcaena’s directive to acquire food and gear for the journey, though it was proving a little easier than they had anticipated. Several bakers in the city made a concoction they called journeyman’s bread, a hard baked good (if it had been baked and not carved out of a conveniently present mountainside) that looked as though it might take a few good hits from a war-hammer. They purchased several loaves of it to last them the journey, as well as several skins full of water. As they turned to return Deyann’s house, Thomas saw Arcaena and Carsten walk through the door. But that was not what caused his jaw to drop; it was the fact that the two were holding hands.

            “Did you…” he began. Edessa nodded, smiling at the stunned expression on his face.

            “What is wrong?” She asked, enjoying herself immensely. “Have you never seen a couple before?”

            “Couple?” Thomas echoed. “You…you knew about this?” The Huntress shook her head.

            “I had no solid evidence, just a suspicion that there might be something between them. Now, I suppose they decided to confirm it,” she added thoughtfully.

            Thomas stared after them. “How…what did you see?”

            She grinned at him and started walking back toward the house. “Are all men that emotionally ignorant?” Edessa wondered aloud. “You could truly not see the way that he looked at her? The way she looked at him? They felt the same way about each other long before they conceded it. I suppose this was just the push they needed.” Thomas nodded.

            “I did not say that those two do not make a good couple; I just wondered that they were so close already,” he muttered.

            “I myself am surprised,” Edessa answered. “Carsten is reticent about anything. I wonder what finally got him to say what he felt.”

            “Are you ready to go home?” Thomas inquired, changing the subject. “Almost two years have passed since we were captured.”

            “Yes,” Edessa said. “I do. However, I fear what my mother will say if I speak of this.”

            “I would not,” Thomas advised. “Are you referring to Carsten specifically?” The Huntress nodded.

            “My feelings on him are mixed,” she told the other. “I have seen his noble side, and he was willing to give his life for the other prisoners first, and then the dark elf specifically. At the same time, I know the family from which he comes and what they have done.”

            “Are you willing to at least give him a chance?” Thomas inquired.

            “I am,” she answered. “But I doubt that my mother would de so understanding. What am I to say?”

            “Nothing,” Thomas counseled. “Simply tell her we escaped. Say neither with whom nor how. Come on,” he said, changing the subject. “They are probably waiting.”

            Deyann’s House

            Evening

            That night was spent in relative celebration by the travelers that night. Deyann had helped them celebrate the occasion by obtaining a butchered wild boar for the evening meal. To go with it, he had brewed an entire cauldron of ilsae, a combination fruit-juice drink favored by the Outlanders in lieu of alcohol. Sanitation being an issue for the financially challenged region, water was less popular due to the potential for carried diseases. The atmosphere was happy, and everyone took note of the fact that Carsten and Arcaena were siting extremely close together. Mycal had joined them as well, and she and Rolf were speaking together quietly in one corner. Halfway through the meal, Arcaena got up and went to get a second serving of the barley bread that she had helped prepare that afternoon, at which point Deyann came over to speak with the red-haired dwarf.

            “So,” he said, “it seems your friend is restored.”

            The dwarf smiled broadly, perhaps more so than he intended. “Yes. She is doing quite well, better than I anticipated.”

            “What are your plans now?” the dark elf queried. Carsten lowered his eyes, carefully planning the words he would speak next.

            “I would like your advice on that,” he said slowly. “Have you…have you ever had two choices in front of you, one that you want and know is not wrong, but another that you know with all your heart is right?”

            Deyann looked at him. “What do you mean?” He asked.

            “I…I love Arcaena,” Carsten told him, “and she said there might be a chance that I could stay with her in Karkopolis.”

            “But?” The dark elf prompted.

            “I want to stay here,” he said. “I really do. And, though I have no way to explain it, I know that this is where I ought to be.”

            Deyann nodded at that. “You know,” he said, “If you want, you can stay. We always have room for more people here.”

            “But why would I?” Carsten asked. “How could I help you?”

            “Harvest is not very far away,” the dark elf replied. “You could easily stay on as a farm hand. Also…” He stopped. “I hear you are quite the capable warrior.” Carsten shook his head.

            “I get by,” he replied, “but I know I can be better.”

            Deyann pointed to the swords in the corner. “I was once Dawn Festival champion. Did you know that?”

            “Festival champion?” Carsten echoed. “How is that possible? Are Outlanders not barred from competition?” Deyann grinned.

            “That would be true if my people had been exiled officially,” he answered. “They closed that particular legal loophole after I pounded the elven king’s son in the final round of the tournament.”

            “Why are you telling me this?” Carsten asked.

            “I would like to offer you a chance to improve,” he said. “Do you want to get better?” Carsten nodded.

            “I do,” he replied. “But what do I tell Arcaena?”

            “Wait,” Deyann advised. “There will be a right time to speak with her, trust me. Be honest and straightforward, and share the entire truth with her.”

            Everwinter Waste

            Ring of Chiefs

            The Vanahym chiefs stood at the center of their ring once more, meeting for the second time in three weeks. This time, Golthe, Thalek, Lahden, and Galsdom were joined by Jyrrok, the fifth of the Vanahym leaders, who traditionally did not attend meetings. That was due to the fact that the people group he led was nomadic, which meant that he was hard to track down in the massive expanse of the Waste. Also, he placed very little stock in councils, preferring to accomplish things on his own. That he had come without being called to the ring testified to his serious view of the situation.

            Golthe began the meeting by taking the bundle he was carrying and dropping it in the center of the ring. “Friends, elders, father, fellow chiefs,” he said. “I bring to you news more grievous than any that this council has deliberated upon in recent memory. I come to you tonight to speak with you and to confirm reports that the Exile has indeed returned. And now, not content to merely massacre the Outlanders, he now turns his wrath upon his own people and the Therians, slaughtering the former like hogs and enslaving the latter to serve as beasts of burden.”
            “You have proof of this?” Thalek asked. The youngest chief nodded, unwrapping the bundle inside were several decapitated heads, some of them Vanahym, but the others human heads, branded with Therian symbols.

            “I found these impaled on spears outside one of my villages. He had the gall to enter one of my settlements, promise help to the people, and then kill them one by one.”

            Jyrrok pounded his fist on the stone. “Then why do we still debate? We must find him and destroy him as soon as may be.”

            Thalek shook his head. “I agree,” he said. “He must be found. Even so, doing it is not quite that simple. He has been moving throughout our territories at will, and we cannot find him.”

            “We could use the Whisperers-” Lahden began. But Jyrrok cut him off.

            “We can do no such thing,” he countered. “The Whisperers are a risky venture at best. Like our old Berserkers, they are an axe that cuts both ways. They would be just as likely to turn on our own if we should restore their position as they would be to hunt him down.”

            “Then we must find him by conventional means,” Golthe extrapolated.

            “That is quite true,” Lahden said. “But the truth of a matter does not detract from the difficulty thereof.”

            “So we are no closer to tracking him than when we started,” Thalek grumbled.

            “Actually,” came a voice from the rear of the circle, “that might not be the case.” The Vanahym chiefs whirled, and to their surprise, they saw not one, but several figures standing at the edge of the icebound ring. Before the man (if man he was) had finished speaking, Golthe’s axe staff was in his hands, and he had assumed a combat-ready stance. Thalek had readied his mace and Lahden his sword. Jyrook reached into his belt and drew his crossbow, which he raised and pointed in their direction. Only Galsdom seemed unconcerned with this development, even though his expression was far from serene.

            “So you have come,” he said, turning to face the shadowed figure. “I wondered if you would have the gall to defile this ground with your presence.”

            “Defile?” The tallest of the figures challenged. “I defile this ground? Or do you, you who speak and debate and idly fret while our people languish in oppression and fear? Our lives are little better than death. So do I defile this ground, or is it you, you who profess to be interested in their welfare and yet act in opposition to it?”

            “In their interest?” Golthe exploded. “In their interest? Since when is ceremonially beheading innocent women and children in their interest? Since when is the bloody, ruthless sacrifice of a young mother in my people’s interest? Do not presume to speak to me about the interests of our people, Exile. You forfeited that right long ago, and you continue to prove your disregard for them even now.”

            The man they called the Exile stepped forward, into the ring. He was wearing a gray-and-black suit of armor, jagged and cruel-looking. The helmet on his head looked like an eagle, wings outspread and claws extended. Beneath the visor, red eyes glittered with cruel intelligence. While it was not in his hand, a massive, double-edged sword hung at his side.

            “You are a fool, boy,” the man spat. “You are too young to yet understand this, but you will in time.”

            “Understand what?” Golthe rejoined hotly. “That you are a psychotic, murderous piece of rubbish bent on destroying everything we value?

            The armored man now drew the sword and took off his helmet. Beneath it, they saw a sharply angled face, an aquiline nose, and a mane of unhealthily white hair. “Am I destroying it?” He challenged. “You already did that. You have thrown our people’s greatest assets aside in favor of a more ‘civilized’ society. And you, old man,” he said, rounding on Galsdom, “your father would vomit at the sight of you.”

            “My father was a fool for believing what he did,” the elder answered. “I have done better for us than he ever could.” The blow came without warning, but Galsdom saw it in the man’s eyes a second before it fell. He brought his staff up, deflecting the sword thrust and returning the favor by cracking the blackwood rod across the Exile’s jaw. Before the man could respond, the older Vanahym began raining merciless blows on his wrists, elbows, shoulders, and back. With each strike, it seemed that he sought a new weakness to exploit and more pain to cause, and was succeeding admirably. Suddenly, his torrent of blows stopped and he suddenly went rigid, stock-still. From where he was standing, Golthe had seen the crossbow fire, but had been powerless to do anything more than watch in frustrated helplessness. The archer reloaded and fired a second time, striking the elder again between the shoulder blades. Galsdom’s eyes glazed, and he collapsed to the snow. No blood poured from the wounds, as the first shot had stopped his heart instantly. The Exile watched in muted satisfaction as the sage died, smiling evilly. Then, when he was certain that his enemy had fallen, he turned to the others.

            “Your elder was afraid of these warriors,” he told them. “They are Whisperers and Berserkers, proud warriors once respected by our people before your leader cast them out. Tell me: who else wants to die tonight?”
            Golthe’s eyes narrowed. “You sick…” The Exile held up an admonishing hand.

            “Not quite,” he said. “Sickness is matter of the doctor’s diagnosis, and I find yours both tiresome and outdated. So, will you follow me, or die?”

            Golthe looked at the others, his eyes showing the rage and frustration that he felt. Thalek shook his head.

            No, boy, he mouthed. Wait for the right time. It will come. We will destroy him.

    But why wait? He mouthed. 

    We must be sure of his destruction if we are to win, Thalek replied. That was enough for the youngest chief.

            “All right,” Golthe said. “We will follow you. For now. But do not expect that we do this out of our devotion to you.”

            “No,” the Exile said, his grin broadening. “You are acting out of respect for power. Whether or not you conceded it, you have always coveted it. Join me permanently, and I will give you power beyond your wildest dreams.” Golthe closed his eyes, not sure what to say or think.

            Everwinter Waste

            Frostspire Castle

            Issavea’s eyes snapped open, her body heaving with exertion. What she had seen had been so horrible she thought it first a nightmare, but she soon realized that what was no dream. He was gone; she had never known anything so certainly in all her life. The Exile had returned, and now Galsdom was dead because of it. How had it happened? How could someone they had believed to be dead for so long have suddenly returned? And, more importantly, how could she not have seen it?

            “My lady?” It was Sadens, standing at the door. While she had not called him, he had heard the sounds of her distress and naturally come to see what it was that she required. “Are you in need of anything?” Slowly, she caught her breath and managed to regain some level of composure. Even so, she could not quite get the graphic images of her mind. The words pounded in her mind like the beat of some terrible drum. Gone…dead…he comes…but she knew now was not the time to be paralyzed by fear.

            “I am indeed,” she said. “Muster any gryphons or riders we still have. Send an urgent message to King Shargann, and tell him to come here immediately and to bring his best warriors. Our enemy is moving, and they have just struck the first blow.”

            “What?” Sadens asked. “What has happened?”

            “The Vanahym, child,” she answered. “Their primal desires have awoken, and they are strong. I fear that we need not look far for war; they have determined to topple us from within before they crush us from without.”

            The guard-master bowed. “As you wish, my queen. I will have a gryphon saddled and gone within the hour.”

            “Within the half,” she said. “Make all speed.”

Author's Note

Not grammar and mechanics mistakes, as well as plot holes. Positive feedback is appreciated but not requisite.