Days Of Light And Shadow (5 page)

Chapter Five.

It was a nice cottage Dura thought. Perhaps it could have used another coat of stain, and there were a couple of timbers slightly askew, but in the spring sunshine it struck her as a good place to spend a few days. Especially on that front balcony, which even in the middle of the day seemed to be bathed in light.

Of course there were some oddities about it. Things that struck her as strange. The door was the first of them to catch her eye. Placed in the very centre of the cottage, it was far too tall and too wide. And the handle, a solid wrought iron hoop was higher than it should be as well, and clearly designed for very large hands.

The front steps, just two of them leading to the front balcony, seemed far more solid than they needed to be. Massive slabs of timber that sat on heavy piles. They could have supported an army. Or a giant, as she abruptly realised. And the elder was supposed to be partly of giant blood.

Yet giants, what little anyone knew of them, didn’t garden. And the cottage was surrounded by gardens. Some were obviously ornamental, planted purely for the flowers which, because it was spring, were blooming. But others were for vegetables, and even from what she could see as they approached, the elder had an obvious liking for root crops. Carrots, suedes, potatoes, turnips and so many others, were there in abundance. Given all the stories she’d been told, that seemed somewhat reassuring.

“Captain. What brings you to my door?” The elder came around from the side of the house, where from the looks of the dirt covered hoe in her hands she’d been gardening, and Dura froze in shock. The others had told her tales of Trekor, long dark stories that she’d taken with a grain of salt knowing they were likely false, but still she’d thought she’d had some idea what to expect of the elder. But when her eyes first saw her, she realised she’d had no idea at all.

And the strange thing was that she wasn’t completely sure what startled her so. It wasn’t the outsider blood. She rode with outsiders. She rode with those with troll blood. And in her new life in the chapter house she was surrounded by many more.

Aellwy Te was a wild village, and as such many villagers had troll blood. Most elves instinctively feared them for their size and tusks, and as such they often found themselves more at home in the smaller, less civilised towns and villages. The town blacksmith was at least half troll, and yet for that a relaxed, friendly and even polite man.

So it wasn’t the tusks that shocked her. And actually they were quite small compared to some she’d seen. It wasn’t her size either, though she was surely the largest woman she’d ever seen. It wasn’t even the two massive crag cats that padded beside her. All of that she could accept easily enough.

It was the wildness she decided, that surprised her. The way the woman’s hair was uncombed, unwashed, and full of twigs as though she’d been pushing her way through bramble bushes. The dirt and mud that almost caked her. The torn clothing. No elf would let herself be seen in such a state.

Then again maybe it was the bond of life she could feel flowing from her. The mark of the Mother upon her child. As a child, like all of her house, Dura had done her studies in the grove, and she knew the feel of an elder. She had enough of the art and faith to recognise one immediately. But the bond this woman had with the mother, it was far more powerful than any she’d ever known before.

Of course it could have been the smile that undid her. Warm and knowing. The smile of a doting aunt perhaps.

The captain indicated to her as he started telling the elder of what they’d encountered, and it was somehow enough to shake her out of her daze. If there was one thing that Dura had learned in her months riding with the Otters, it was to never ignore the captain. It didn’t work out well.

So she dismounted hurriedly, unstrapped the leather saddle bag, and carried it to him, before opening it up and dropping the contents on the ground in front of him.

“Ohh!” The elder sighed, not so much surprised as disappointed as far as Dura could tell. Yet Dura even having seen the head before, and knowing what to expect, was still shocked by the sight. It was simply so horrible that it staggered her each time she saw it.

“It is an abomination?”

“Yes. And not the first. Tell me where you encountered it.” Immediately Captain Maydan launched into a detailed account of the battle, most of which seemed of little concern to the elder. The only thing she wanted to know about was the where. Still she listened politely, something that seemed at odds with her appearance, and said nothing until she had the information she needed.

“Cypress Fields. Damn!” She seemed even more disappointed than before.

“There is a problem?” The captain was being very respectful she noticed. Not as he was with the rest of them.

“Of course. It’s nowhere near the others. So there’s no way of knowing where it came from.”

“Where it came from?” The captain looked askance at her.

“The temple. Somewhere out there is a temple where the black priests of the Reaver raise their army of abominations. For ten years now we’ve know it existed. Ever since the reports of abominations started trickling in. It’s been only a few here and there, but still the fact of any could only mean that the demon is stretching forth his maw into our world once more. And that means he has at least one temple and some priests to do his bidding. But we can’t find it.”

“The reports have come from all over Elaris, and some reports have come from even further away. And now the reports are coming in faster than before. Yours is the third this month.” That didn’t please Dura. She knew the stories of the ancient demon and the plague of living death he’d inflicted upon the world a thousand years before. Everyone did. And no one wanted him to be back.

“Is there no clue elder?” Foolishly Dura interrupted the conversation and received an unhappy glance from the captain for it. But she was curious.

“One child. Only one. And his name is Y’aris.” The elder suddenly stared at the ground for a moment, lost in thought. No one interrupted her until she was ready to speak. But they all knew whom she meant.

“He is an evil little toad. A murderer and a poisoner. And cunning with it. But if that were all he was, the Grove would not worry about him so. But there is something wrong with his watchmen. Something that speaks of evil clutching at their souls.”

“It’s not obvious yet. But there is a taint. Something evil. Something perhaps even demonic. And if there was any man of sufficient wickedness to have consort with the demon it would be him.”

“Then -?” Dura’s words trailed off before she finished the question as she realised that she knew the answer.

“He does not show the signs child. He has neither black eyes nor veins. He has neither faith nor magic. And until he shows something the ancient accord between the Grove and the Throne must stand. We cannot interfere.”

The elder was right of course. Fifteen hundred years of custom, history and law could not be set aside so lightly. But it was a shame. In the two short years since Finell had ascended to the Heartwood Throne the realm had fallen apart, and the watchmen on the streets and that terrible prison were only the most obvious signs of its fall. The people cried out for fairness and decency. And the Grove remained silent. As they had to.

And as she realised, that included the rangers. The rangers rode for the Grove. They had freedom in many things, but they could not go against the wishes of the Grove. So they would follow the elder’s lead and do nothing.

But as she carried the head on the end of her pike to the fire pit to be destroyed, Dura couldn’t help but think that it was damnably unfair. These things and whatever had created them, needed to be put to the sword. And the elder was right about Y’aris. He was a black blood.

Even if he wasn’t involved, he should probably have been put to the sword. And the high lord with him. Too young they’d said, and they’d been right. But it wasn’t his age that truly offended. It was his heart. Every bit as black as that of his advisor.

And when she tossed the head into the burning pit where the elder was disposing of her garden wastes, she could easily see two more heads joining them. Unelven or not, she would cheerfully have killed them both. Especially if they had something to do with this evil.

Of course if she did, the captain would likely have her doing chores in the chapter house for the rest of her life.

Chapter Six.

It was a lovely day in the early spring. The sun was up high in the sky, beaming down upon them all, the sky was blue, the air warm, and for once Iros was almost enjoying his duty. Almost.

True being an envoy wasn’t usually an arduous duty. But it did require sacrifice. And part of that was in always looking respectable. That didn’t come naturally to him. He had been a wild child, and still he’d rather play in the fields of home than walk the streets of a strange city in all his finery. And he wasn’t sure it even helped. Those that didn’t care that he was human, didn’t care what he wore. While to those that did care, he could have worn a suit of moon silver and it wouldn’t have mattered. They saw his sturdy frame, dark brown hair and muscles grown from years of training in combat, and saw a savage. Dressed in all his finery he was still a savage to them.

At least Leafshade was a pretty city. Very pretty with its polished wood filigree adorning every building, fence and lamppost. And of course every building and structure was constructed of wood, sawn, sanded, stained and polished until it shone in the sun. Carefully trimmed flower gardens were bedded in front of every house, while the vegetable gardens and orchard trees filled the back yards. And between all the buildings were large open tracts of lawn, the green grass glowing with vitality.

Even the paths had been thoughtfully set out. The perfectly placed flat river stones ran across the endless green lawn that was the base of the city. Together they formed a delicate tracery of river stones that ran in gentle curves from one end of the city to the other, and connected every house and building between them.

Iros was constantly amazed by the river stone paths. It must have taken centuries for the masons to lay them out. The stones were dragged up from the nearby Aora, gathered together in a makeshift store as masons split them, then carted over to the city where more artisans had carved out the shape of each new path to be built and levelled it with river sand. Then each stone was painstakingly placed in the sand and when it was just right, set there with a special preparation of lime mortar and clay. Some days it seemed to him that the elves took even more care with their foot paths then they did with their houses. And they took great care with their houses.

The architecture wasn’t truly to his taste; Iros much preferred the permanence of stone to wood. The solidity of block work to the delicacy of carving. There was something reassuring in stone. But still the houses were well built as well as perfectly decorated, and inside the mission he seldom heard the wind or felt the rain.

But the perfection of the city’s construction was only a part of what amazed him. The artistry of the paths as they ran from the front door step of every house and building was even more breath taking. None of the paths were straight. They were flat and even, but the elves did love their curves. And no two were alike. Yet when seen from above, say from the first floor balcony of the mission, one could see the tracery that the paths made across the verdant beauty of the grass, and realise that together they formed a pattern. The buildings seemed randomly placed on the giant pasture, the paths meandering, and yet together they formed a giant weaving of stone and wood across the grass. The pattern of the veins in a fern leaf. The tracery of the wind swept ripples of water across a lake.

When the city was busy, when the people were rushing about their duties, the elves’ brightly coloured hair shining in the sun made it seem as though the paths were really rivers of flowing magic. There was a reason they were known as rainbow elves. He loved to stand on the balcony of the top floor of the mission and watch that.

In the distance, there was the forest, completely surrounding the city, framing it like an artist’s painting. It was a strange thing for a man born and raised in a land of flowing green meadows and fields to see. Leafshade had been built in a glade. A huge glade three leagues across, and so instead of a backdrop of distant mountains or seas, there were trees. Walls of impossibly tall trees.

That was the elven way. The Mother, Gaia, was the goddess of the natural world, and in everything they did they gave thanks to her. Even in their city planning.

It seemed to him that all the elves had a deep and abiding love of beauty. It showed in everything they did, but unfortunately not in everything they were.

The people weren’t terrible. Strange with their long colourful hair hanging down to their waists, and with their pointed ears poking out at all angles through it, but polite enough. For the most part they were civil, uncommonly civil, and after two long years in the city, some of them were even friendly. A few. But they were the low born of course. Not those of the great houses.

The high born were too formal for his liking. Too proud. And too important for him. Iros might be the son of a lord of a realm in his own right, but his home was a rough farming province on the borderlands, not the king’s court. Even if he hadn’t been an outsider he would have still been too minor a lord for them to spend time with. Those of the great houses seldom bothered to speak with him outside of his official capacity, and when they had to speak it seemed that they always looked down on him.

But still even they were usually polite, even if their precious high lord and most of his court seemed to regard him as little more than a barbarian dressed in finery. It was a common view. The elves were nice enough people, save for the fact that they considered outsiders as just a little lower than them.

They called human’s utra, an ancient word for savage. Trolls they named urdan or wild beasts. And the gnomes, well they were vesans or vermin. As for the dwarves, they had a hundred terms for them, each more horrid than the last. And sprites would always be sani, or traitors. A term that went back fifteen hundred years to the age of kings, when the sprites and the elves had separated. When the silver elves had left the rainbow elves as the bards would say.

Still when some of them slipped up and let their disdain for him and his people show through, Iros let it pass. There was no point in creating a stir. Not when he knew that their pox ridden high lord, who was nothing more than a spoilt child, had probably encouraged the view.

In sooth Finell was the only real problem he faced in Leafshade. And he knew that the other envoys to the city had similar issues with the high lord. And though none of them would speak of it openly, most of them came back to the one single problem. He was a brat.

The kid, and even though he was nineteen and supposedly of age he was truly a child, needed a damned good thrashing. He needed to be put over a knee and paddled firmly. Or failing that he needed to take some time away from the Heartwood Throne to do some growing up. Not that Iros would ever say that to him, or even about him. Not in public. His father had schooled him well in the art of diplomacy even before he’d been sent away to the academy, and the first rule was always to think before you opened your mouth. It was a rule that had served him well in his nearly two years in Leafshade.

Besides if Finell didn’t want him around, he didn’t want to be there either. He’d rather be back in his home, playing with his animals or riding through the lush fields of Greenlands hunting game. Or better yet, drinking in the public houses, carousing with the bards, throwing dice, wenching and even brawling as he had done as a young man. Those were his passions. Not sitting in a court, wearing all the uncomfortable finery gold could buy, bowing and scraping to one and all, and acting as the mouthpiece for the distant king. The Royal Chamber was his definition of the nine hells, or at least a few of them.

And yet the sun was out, high in the clear blue sky, the air was warm and scented with the smell of wild flowers as spring reclaimed the land, and the laughter of the children as they ran around was music to his ears. On a day like this he could almost imagine that he was home again. Free. He could almost forget that he had duties to attend to. Almost.

But there was work to be done. There was always work to be done. Being an envoy might seem like light work to others, a few quiet words spoken here and there, the odd meeting, and maybe a dinner or two, but that was only what it was meant to look like. The truth was that it was an endless chore.

Iros turned and spoke to his assistant “Pita when you have the chance I want you to check if master Harold’s wagon has arrived yet, and if it has, if he has been able to acquire the fire glow foxglove. I would very much like to have those plants before Lady Elwene returns from her pilgrimage.” As she was the high lord’s sister he considered it important to have a gift for her whenever he could, and since she was turning to the priesthood more and more, he thought that the gift of the rare northern plant with its bright red blooms would be especially welcomed. It was after all a medicinal plant as well as a pretty flower.

And if he was honest, she was one of the prettiest of elves, with her face always glowing with joy and never an unkind word on her tongue. The flower would compliment her well, maybe even bring a smile to her lips. And she had such a pretty smile. Not that the son of a farmer lord and a human would ever be considered worthy.

“Yes sir.” Pita was busy making  notes with his charcoal stick on the sheaf of rice paper he always carried around with him, and briefly Iros had to wonder anew if his memory was truly so terrible. But he seemed like a clever enough lad, his language skills were excellent, the reports from the tutors at the Academy glowing. So surely not. In time he hoped Pita would make a good envoy in his own right. It was just a lack of confidence he suspected. Pita was simply frightened of making a mistake, of forgetting something. But at least he could write as they walked, and it was a good day to enjoy a walk.

“Make sure that the horses are seen by the blacksmith, and if possible all of them should be shod today. Indri is starting to favour her front right and these river stone paths are hard on hooves.”

“Also, call in on the butchers and see if you can get some pork bones for Saris. Her teeth are looking a little yellow.” Saris yipped in agreement as she trotted beside them. A simple jackal hound she had no idea what was being said, but she knew her name, and she liked it when he used it. She liked everything he did. Iros didn’t fully understand why she was so affectionate, her kind weren’t usually that way, even among themselves, but he would have missed her orange striped and spotted fur more than a little if she wasn’t there. And this was a day on which a man and his dog or his jackal hound should enjoy a walk in the sun.

She was a useful animal to keep as well for an envoy, and several times he’d thought wistfully about putting her on staff. Children loved her for some reason, and they would come from all over to pet her. Something she accepted with good grace. And children had parents, some of them high born parents. If they carried back word of their happy encounter to their parents, that could only be good.

Of course he did sometimes worry that she might snap up a pet. Children she knew weren’t food, but animals not so much. And elven children seemed to love their pet rabbits and squirrels. He had to watch her.

“Then go to the library. See if you can speak with the masters there about obtaining a copy of the poetic works of Perilla of Storva. I would like all of us to be completely familiar with her work before the dinner next week.” Reading poetry wasn’t his favourite pastime, but when the mission had agreed to hold a formal dinner for the masters of the local Academy of Grace in honour of the bard, he could make an exception. It was expected, and it would be a chance to meet informally with more of the high born. Such was the life of an envoy. And Pita as he recalled, had studied verse in detail during his time at the Academy.

Besides, Perilla of Storva had been a poet of the Mother, and so hosting an evening in her honour also served his other goal, which was one day, before his time here was up, to spend some time in Honeysuckle Grove. It alone in the entire city was off limits to him, and tucked away in the great forest, it wasn’t as if he could accidentally wander off course and find himself in it. A man had to be invited.

Iros continued giving his assistant the details of his duties for the day as they walked leisurely towards the smiths’ quarter, but his thoughts weren’t really on the matters at hand. For the most part he was simply trying to put the coming afternoon’s suffering, out of his mind. Then the court would meet in the Royal Chamber and he would once more have to do battle with his wits against a rotten ruler with an appalling lack of grace. All with a perfunctory smile on his face and a civil tongue in his mouth. He hated it.

For once though he was able to forget his woes. Maybe with the early spring sun warm on his back, and the smell of lavender and honeysuckle in the air, even a human like him could find a measure of peace in this strange land.