Geal Ros

I never was attached to that great sect

Whose doctrine is, that each one should select

Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend

And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend

To cold oblivion, though it is in the code

Of modern morals…

Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Epipsychidion”

Prologue

To the reader of this work, I say this:

This is not a story for the faint of heart, nor is it for one who expects their heroes to succeed. This, like most true stories, is fraught with the ugliness and beauty that only life can bring. I do not expect that most who discover this work (if there be any at all who do) will enjoy, understand or even believe the course my life has taken. To those who read and do not believe, I say that things happened as I have written them.

I saw it. I lived it. I was there.

Lady Salah Dubsgothian

Chapter 1

The Road to Lindaryon

My story begins with my first journey to the Eldest City, the city of Lindaryon.

Of course, I was not born on the road, nor was I found in a gutter beside it. However, my life to that point was irrelevant, and in any event no different than any other young woman from a rustic noble House. Suffice it to say, I was born to House Lyndros, new made nobles in the dark times of the Long Struggle. I grew up loved by my mother, doted on by my father, and raised by their servants; neither truly had the time or the inclination to parenting. They spent their days together when they had the time, often excluding me entirely for the sake of time alone. I cannot blame them for this, for children are a trial, and at the time I confess I scarce noticed their absence. I instead spent my childhood learning the arts of magic. Since I could first open my inner eyes, I had been fascinated by the arcane arts. It was a vast and ever changing body of learning where I never grew bored and anyhow, what young mage could ever tire of calling storms and lighting candles with their mind alone? My tutor in such arts was an old man, well preserved in the manner of elfkind, with long iron-gray hair and a soft smile. He was always surprised by my thirst for knowledge, and was hard-pressed to keep me busy as I devoured book after book.

However, it was not my mastery of magic that would earn me my moniker, but my face and form. I was born slim and well formed, with clean limbs and pale skin without flaw or blemish. My hair fell in a cascade of silver waves, and my eyes were the color of pale blue ice, gleaming in spring’s first light…at least, so I had been told. Of all the gifts the gods saw fit to grant me, beauty was the one I least cared about.

It was the month of March in the year 1623 when we began the journey, and Avalon was a nation gripped in war. The Long Struggle, the singers had called it; an altogether apt name for the century-long period of conflict. It had become a beast that devoured the young men of Avalon by the hundreds. It was in that war that my father had won his lordship, defending the crown prince Alaric with shield and blade while he lay bleeding in a Gaulian clearing. A grateful king had awarded my father a small tract of land, a castle that overlooked the Wandering Strait, and a title in the bargain.

I can remember the day we set out from Lyndros Castle, the keep in which I had spent my childhood; it was a balmy spring morning, and my father had decreed that I could ride with the column instead of being shut in the carriage with my mother and her attendants. Even then I already found my mother’s shallow vapidity trying at best, and was in any event more taken with the surrounding countryside than talk of a Court I would soon see. My father’s only stricture on the matter was that I was not to leave the road, and was not to ride past the standard-bearer at the front of the column. I chafed at these restrictions, as the young are wont to do, but I held to them.

Winter still had the land gripped, but its grasp was fading in the face of spring’s bounty; birds sang and insects hummed as we rode, and everywhere there were things green and growing and full of life. Conflict had reached Avalon only in the deaths it caused; Gaulia lay across the stretch of sea men called the Channel, and no Gaulish warriors had ever dared to make the crossing, too busy were they defending their homes and fields.

I, who had never been more than a stone’s throw from the castle, was fascinated by each new hillock and crossroads town we encountered. My father’s guards were hard pressed to keep me from riding too far ahead as we traveled. Often I dismounted to examine some flower or plant, though I confess that I was mainly interested in their magical properties than in the beauty of such things. Looking back, I am certain that I caused the force of castle guardsmen and would-be knights no end of grief.

One of them seemed to enjoy my presence, standing out to me even then. His name was Arwinias Sunbourne, and the others called him Arwin. He was tall and well built, with the stamp of the Highland Reachmen plain on his pale skin and eyes of hazel-green. The eyes in particular caught me; intense without being brooding, and revealing a sensitive nature without being too soft. His hair was a thick profusion of waves, falling about his shoulders in a cascade of spun gold and ripening wheat. He smiled slightly every time he reproved me for riding too far in his lilting Reachman’s accent, and my stomach fluttered to see that smile. At nineteen, I was still too inexperienced to fully understand what desire felt like.

Of the other would-be guards, the less said, the better. They were all tyros, the young sons of rich and powerful nobles looking to be Mage Knights, and they were fools. Their armor seemed designed more for appearance than function, all enameled in bright shades of crimson and jade and sky-blue, decked with jewels, the steel bright and fresh from the forge. They spent the entire trip engaging my mother in flirtations and precious little time watching out for bandits, which was supposedly why they were included in the column. Only Arwin watched the road incessantly, and when we stopped would check every door and window in the inns and rooming houses we stayed in. I may not have known how to name my desire, but Father knew dedication when he saw it, and promised to put in a good word for him at Court. I do not know if this pleased him, but it certainly made his better-born companions jealous.

I still remember the day when his precautions bore fruit.

It was a chill morning, one of winter’s last days, covering the land in hovering mist. I felt as if I were praying in a temple, it was that silent; only the noises of the column reached my ears. We moved slowly down the winding road, all eyes on the fog-shrouded forest that surrounded us. The stillness had even the talkative tyros quiet and apprehensive.

The road bent and turned back on itself like a snake in the throes of agony, to avoid the ancient oaks that dotted the landscape. Between this and the thick shroud of fog I found myself losing sight of the men in front of me, their jewel-bright armor fading in and out.

“Maybe you should stay closer, good sir…we could get lost in this fog easily.” Though I had spoken quietly, my voice still sounded loud in the pregnant silence.

I saw the young would-be knight turn and give me the sort of smile one gives a precocious youngster that has overstepped her bounds. “Milady, no one is going to get lost with the road to follow, I promise you that.” He was broadly built for his age, with a shock of raven hair and a stubborn lantern jaw. His cheeks were still full and round with youth; he could not have been much older than I was. “However, if it would make the lady feel safer, my companion and I will ride closer to you.” He tried to affect a dashing grin, but his eyes gave it a patronizing twist that made me grind my teeth and scowl.

“I would appreciate it,” I replied, trying to keep from snarling. To argue with the boy would have been pointless; young men, I had learned already, did not welcome the advice of women.

He did ride closer to me, carmine-colored armor clinking softly against his saddle as he swayed gently with the movement of his steed. “Beastly weather, this fog…you would not  believe how much mail itches in this damp…”

I nodded noncommittally, which he seemed to take as interest; he launched into a stream of banal small talk that I did my best to ignore. My attention began wandering to the forest around me, and it was then that I saw it.

Just a shape, a shadow, flitting between two trees; I blinked, all the childhood legends of tree-nymphs coming back to me as I tried to pick out what it was. I noticed my companion had taken no notice of the occurrence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught it again; a hulking shape this time, ducking behind the gnarled trunk of some ancient tree. I snapped my head around, but once again saw nothing.

“Milady? Is something amiss?” my companion finally took note of my unease and reined up, looking at me questioningly.

“I saw something out there…past those trees.” I pointed.

He gave the woods a cursory glance, then gave a careless shrug. “Just a wisp of fog, no doubt.”

“Tell me, good sir…is fog in the habit of darting between trees?” I tried and failed to keep the acid from my speech.

He gave a nervous little chuckle, and I could tell that he was only constrained from telling me off by the chains of chivalry and politeness. “Oh, come now, milady…we can barely see our hands in front of our faces in this muck. How could someone be spying on us? They wouldn’t be able to see anything either.”

His logic made about as much sense to me as the chirpings of a sparrow, but there was nothing I could do save keep my own wits about me as he called forward to his comrade in arms.

“Rikor! You see anything up there?” His voice broke silence like a hammer, and I winced.

“Only fog, old trees and a few armlengths of road, Garlon.” Up ahead, the other young tyro was but a spectral shape in the swirling mists. “Oh, and some moss here and there.” His cracking adolescent’s voice sounded amused.

“Well, keep a sharp eye out…the young lady is nervous, and I don’t want her fretting too much.” He turned back to me and grinned, shaking dew-dampened hair out of his eyes.

I ignored him, glancing back over my shoulder; I could no longer make out the creaking of my mother’s wheelhouse, nor could I spot any of the rest of the column. Sweat broke out all along my back as I realized that I and the two young tyros were for all intents and purposes quite alone on the road.

To make matters worse, I heard a rustling noise, off to my left.

I am not and have never been a coward, but the mind fears an unknown noise far more than the most hideous monster. I squeaked like a child, and spurred my horse in the direction of the young men, who by this time had all but left me behind. Having had enough of their careless and patronizing behavior, I opened my mouth to tell them so-

-And found myself in shock as a tree trunk came flying out of the mist.

“Look out!” I screamed, but it was far too late as young Rikor’s horse took the log across the flank. The young knight screamed in agony as his leg was shattered by the blow, the sound mingling with a horse’s frightened whinny as both horse and rider went down in a tangle of steel and flesh. My own mount let out a cry of its own, and I was hard pressed to keep the saddle as another log came flying out of the forest.

Garlon may have been cocky, but he was far from being a total idiot; he wrenched his mount into a savage turn to avoid the flying mass of wood. It missed him by only a handspan, but he clawed his sword from its scabbard and placed himself between me and the forest.

Already, hulking shapes were sliding out of the fog, brutish figures clad in greasy furs, each standing as tall as a mounted knight. Their skin was dark and banded like mountain stones, and their arms hung almost to their knees, each as thick as a horse’s neck.  Jotun, they were called; the feared rock-people of the north. I watched as the first knocked young Garlon from his saddle with a single contemptuous swipe of his scythe, bellowing a wordless warcry that shook me to my bones.

The young tyro may have fancied himself strong, but he was no match for his mountainous opponent. The huge bandit batted aside his frantic sword strikes and drove him into the damp earth with another blow from his scythe, laughing. Sparks flew, blood spouted forth in a hot arc, and Garlon lay still.

In a panic, I tried to turn my horse, but the fur-clad warrior clamped one meaty hand on my reins and stopped my horse cold. The spirited little mare scented blood and reared, whinnying. My world tipped up and back as I too was spilled from the saddle, then vanished in a flash of white as my head hit the unforgiving ground. I tried to stand, seeing stars and tasting blood on my tongue, only to feel the sharp point of a weapon to my throat. I blinked up into the eyes of my tormentor. His mouth was a slash of pink in his granite face, rotting teeth protruding over cracked lips in a grimace. Under his furs his massive body was shriveled by starvation’s cruel hand, and his eyes spoke of desperation and madness. He reached for me with one knobbly hand. I flinched away from his touch, skittering crablike backwards and filling my lungs to scream…

Then Arwin joined the fray.

He gave no battle cry to sound his approach; the sudden thunder of hooves and the flash of a drawn blade were his only herald. The bandit before me rumbled a curse and brought his scythe around in a wild parry, but he was not fast enough. The bright arc of Arwin’s steel passed through the bandit’s arm, and his rumbled curse became a shout of agony.

Perhaps it was the sudden change of fortune, or the hot spray of blood across my face, but I was snapped out of my fearful paralysis and into decisive action. Arwin’s horse thundered past me in a rush, but I was already on my feet, calling the magic at my command.

My mage-trained eyes showed me the power of this place, clinging like morning dew to the trees and bushes, begging to be used. With a thought and a gesture I gathered it around me, taming it to my hand, giving it form and purpose.

The spellcaster’s art is much like the smith’s, or the carpenter’s; taking the raw material of the natural world and giving it a shape useful to the craftsman. The only tools I needed were my mind and my will, and I bent them to the ancient energies of the forest, feeling the power fill me. I opened my eyes, and looked for a target.

The woods were alive with the sound of clashing steel and shouted curses, shot through with the screams of the wounded. Arwin, I saw, was holding his own against the remaining three bandits, taking the blows on his sword and returning them as best as he was able. Though armed and mounted, he was wearing the lightest of jerkins and he had not had time to don his helm. As I watched, Arwin shattered the wooden shield of one of his opponents, dented the pothelm of another with a vicious overhand cut. The shieldman was clearly outmatched, but the other was a different matter; he wielded a massive rusted greatsword as easily as I might have handled an eating knife, and Arwin was clearly in trouble. The third bandit fell back, pulling a wicked looking javelin from a sheath on his back. Arwin, pressed in as he was by a pair of opponents, could not possibly have seen it.

But I did.

The energies flowing about me, the ephemera I had called, suddenly had a purpose. I borrowed the chill from the cold spring breeze, mixing it with my own will and power. The mana at my command became a cutting gale, a gout of frosty wind that ripped from my fingertips straight towards the unaware bandit. My spell struck the javelin square, sending it in a flat spin away from its target. The missile buried itself in the damp earth, bits of frost still clinging to the rusty steel. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, feeling the energies leave me all in a rush at the successful casting. Arwin took the opportunity to bury his sword into the neck of the shieldman, who gave a bubbly howl and collapsed.

Already, I began weaving a second spell, hands moving in almost unconscious patterns as my mind performed the contortions of thought necessary to shape energy. Arwin wheeled his horse to stand at my side, sword still held at the ready. His hair was askew, clothes crusted with gore, but for all that he looked ready to face a small army if needs be.

He needn’t have worried; a new set of hoofbeats and shouts heralded the approach of my father’s guardsmen. Arrows seemed to sprout from the chest of the spear-thrower as the soldiers let fly with their longbows; he sank to his knees as one found his eye, dying without a sound.

In a trice, my father’s men had the sole survivor surrounded. A gaunt mountain of flesh clad in ragged bearskins, he stood straight and proud, glaring at the soldiers with flint-colored eyes. Now that I had time to look, I noticed his thick arms were covered in crude tattoos, all shot through with scars old and new.

“In the name of the King, surrender your steel!” A tow-headed guardsman shouted from behind his long pike, glaring at the bandit. Others behind the pikeman drew back bows, leveling them at the  jotun. Despite the reinforcements Arwin kept himself between the prisoner and me, sword held at the ready. One of the footmen prodded the huge creature with the point of his spear, glaring in his anger. “Surrender, or die!”

For an eternal moment, no one moved. I watched as a queer sort of calm came over the recalcitrant bandit’s face, a rapturous emptiness. He rumbled something in a language I did not know, let his greatsword fall to the ground…

…and with a bellow like an enraged beast, charged the circle of guardsmen.

I never saw clearly what happened in that moment, for it all unfolded far too fast. Arwin’s sword was just  there, slicing aross the bandit’s right arm in a bright arc, coming round to bury itself in his brow. His charge became a stumble, and he fell mere armlengths in front of me. A cold north wind that had nothing to do with my magic ruffled my hair, and I shivered as I stared, wide-eyed, at the corpse. I heard someone behind me utter an oath, but no one else spoke.

Arwin slid off his horse and prodded the body with his sword, swaying slightly from exertion. Doubtless he was checking for signs of life, but he needn’t have bothered; Arwin’s sword cut had landed between the  jotun’s horns to slice his head almost in two.

“By the gods…” someone muttered behind me, voice hushed.

Arwin looked up. “Not your gods, friend.” With the point of his sword, Arwin flicked open the dead bandit’s bearskin cloak, and pointed at a crude scar on his broad chest. “His gods.”

I felt that same cold wind slice through the forest, and I wrapped my arms about myself. There was magic in that wind, I could feel it, and it was not of my making. “What did he say, before he…charged?” I heard myself say.

Arwin’s face looked almost sad.  ”It is a good day to die, my lady.” He turned to look at me. “He was one of the  bersjark.”

I had heard legends of the rabid warrior-priests of the Vyksland  jotun; it was said they could work themselves into such a fervor that neither blade nor arrow could slow them, and that they wore no armor and felt no pain. Around me, I saw the soldiers draw back in fear. I merely stared at the corpse, wondering what cruel twists of fate had led such a brave man to knavery.

“Salah!” My father’s anguished shout broke the reverent silence, and I turned to see him shoving men aside to get to me. I went to him as quickly as I was able, feeling unsteady on my feet as the shock of battle faded.

My father’s eyes were wide with worry as he took me into his arms, wiping blood from my face with a shaking hand. “Gods…are you hurt?”

“I fell from my horse…it’s nothing serious. Someone should see to the tyros, father.” I pointed in the direction of my two fallen companions, who were being attended to even as I spoke.

“Are you certain you’re all right? Good gods…I should never have let you ride so far from the carriage…”

“Actually, Lord Lyndros,” I heard Arwin say as he walked over, “I am glad she was.”

My father looked up from his reverie, saw the tall young knight watching him. “What do you mean, young man?”

Arwin pointed at the javelin, still stuck point-first into the cold ground. “That was meant for me, my lord. If she hadn’t deflected it with her magic, I might be dead on the earth…and your daughter with me.”

My father looked at the javelin, then back at me. “I see. How did they get so close to us in the first place?”

I thought of the careless behavior of the two tyros, and considered telling my father; after all, such dereliction of duty was a serious matter for a would be knight. Arwin, however, spoke first.

“Bandits live or die by their ability to sneak up on travelers, my lord.” He glanced over to where Garlon and Rikor were being tended to. “Doubtless my companions did their best.” I could tell by his tone that he believed otherwise, but Arwin said nothing more as my father nodded his assent.

“I shall see to them, “ My father replied, giving the fallen young tyros one final look. “perhaps the priests at our next stop can do something for them.” With that, he walked off to deal with the situation.

My father took charge of the scene with the ease of long practice; he had been a warrior all his adult life, and had seen the aftermath of battle many times. The bodies of the raiders were moved off the road, in preparation for burning. The bodies of the tyros were loaded onto Garlon’s mount (Rikor’s had been killed by the massive log) and led back the way we had come; though their lives had been taken, I knew that with luck and a skilled priest they might yet come back to the living world. I saw Arwin standing over the corpses of the men he had slain, sword still clenched in his fist. Gathering myself, I walked over to him.

At my approach, he turned. “I hope you are well, my lady.” Exertion brought out the lilt in his voice as he spoke.

I nodded. “A slight crack on the head…as I told my father, nothing serious.” I looked at his chest, and noticed one of the stains on his shirt was spreading. “You’ve been injured.”

Arwin looked down, seeming to notice the wound for the first time. “Aye, that’s so…” He prodded the wound experimentally with a finger, and winced.

“Stop that,” I admonished him, pushing aside his hand without thinking and peeling back the blood-sodden shirt. He hissed in pain as I did so, but did not move to stop me as I examined the wound. It was a long gash across his ribs; not terribly deep, but the blade had most definitely not been clean. Though magic could set right even the most grievous of wounds, the fevers they left behind were beyond the ken of any sorcerer.

“I can set this right easily, Sir Arwin...” I looked up to find him watching me.

“I have no right to such a title as yet, milady, but I’ll take the healing and be glad of it.” A warm smile graced his features, despite the pain he was most obviously feeling. He looked down, seemed to notice his sword was still in his hand, and sheathed it with an almost sheepish look.

“Take this off,” I ordered him, plucking at the sleeve of his ruined shirt. “And carefully, or you’ll make things worse.”

He obeyed-and I gasped. Under his shirt the damage to his body was considerably more extensive than I had first surmised; in addition to the obvious sword-wound, scrapes and bruises marred the pale flesh of his chest and arms. I who had never beheld anything but the smallest of scratches, felt faintly ill. Carefully, I began gathering more power for the healing spells I knew.

The art of magical healing is much more complicated and taxing than simple elemental conjuring; living creatures are fiendishly complex, and a mistake with such a spell can have drastic consequences for the recipient. I took my time, taming the mana carefully to my will and making absolutely certain the invocations were stable before placing them on Arwin’s spirit.

I was not nearly a skilled or patient enough mage for true healing magic, and could only manage the commonplace trick of accelerating the natural healing process to close the wound. Fortunately I also knew the trick of removing pain, and through my Sight I saw the ragged pulsing edges of Arwin’s aura smooth and calm as I did so.

When I banished my Sight and looked on Arwin’s face, I saw the lines of pain ease. His eyes blinked clear, and he nodded in gratitude.

“That was well-cast, milady.” He stood, still clad in only his breeches and boots. He picked up the bloody remnants of his shirt and gazed at it with a doubtful expression.

“Let me fetch you a new one,” I said, quickly getting to my feet and heading in the direction of his saddle-bags. I found myself hard pressed to take my eyes off him; he was tall and broadly built, yet graceful as a panther and lacking an ounce of undue flesh. After several moments of awkward rummaging, I brought him his spare shirt, helping him slide into it. He winced a few times, but uttered not a word of complaint.

“By tradition, my lady, you are free to name a boon of me.” Arwin was lacing the cuffs of his loose shirt, watching me.

I thought a moment, then replied. “I would be most gracious if you would request of my father my presence at the front of the column...as a sorcerer.” I smiled, feeling more like myself. I leaned closer and whispered. “I would rather face bandits than my mother’s clucking handmaidens...”

He laughed, and clasped my hand. “The decision may not be mine, my lady, but I will at least attempt it.” He stood, resettling his sword belt.

I matched his smile with one of my own. “I would be most grateful... Arwin.”

He gave me a wave for answer, and went off to help with the aftermath of the battle. With efficiency born of long experience, my father got the young knight’s body loaded onto his horse, and the bodies of the bandits moved off the road. I did not know what became of my request of Arwin, but I saw him conversing with my father, and I was never ordered into the carriage, so he must have made good on his word.

Thankfully, the rest of our journey to Lindaryon was uneventful, and there were no more bandit attacks. Mind you, this was before Avalon had a national Constabulary, and bandits were still a common and widespread problem. My father sent several of his guards and one of the other tyros on ahead to find a priest for the dead man; if they found one in time, he might yet be brought back, they said. I found it odd that I was not terribly affected by the blood and death that I had witnessed, while my mother (who had been far behind and never in any real danger) was rendered meek and frightened.

I spent most of my days riding alongside Arwin, talking at length. At first, his answers were short, and I thought his shyness charming. After all, he was in his mid-twenties at least, and I had only just turned nineteen. He opened up to me one night, however, when we began speaking of futures.

“Have you always wished to be a knight?” I asked him, toying with the reins as I rode.

He smiled. “Near all my life, my lady.” His smile became distant as he stared out at the horizon. We were coming on a small village near the edge of vast farmland, but I sensed this was not what he was seeing. “It isn’t the life my father would have chosen for me, but he has learned to understand.”

I started to speak, and then understood; the Highland Reaches had only bowed to the will of the Dubsgothian kings a bare two centuries ago, after a bitter conflict. One of their number wanting to serve the king of Avalon as a knight must have come across as salt in old wounds. “I see,” I finally replied, not wanting to offend him with an Avalon’s perspective on an old war. “Why do you wish for knighthood?”

He was silent a moment before replying. “It’s always been what I have been good at...and if a man is skilled at arms, talented at mage craft, what other life should he choose?” He ran his hand through his hair. “The duty of a knight is to protect people...to defend those who cannot defend themselves. If I  can do this, why should I  not do it?” He looked at me briefly, and then looked away, embarrassed by his confession.

I was silent a long moment, not knowing what to say and knowing that I should say something, to right his heart. Even at nineteen I knew men well enough to know that they did not often speak of such things, and when they did they were embarrassed by them. Finally, I spoke.

“That is most noble of you, Arwin.” I paused, remembering something. ‘My father has said often in my hearing that too many young men these days want to be a knight for the glory of it, and forget that a knight is a servant, not a lord.” I looked at him. “Perhaps you will change this...”

“You...believe me?” His voice was laced with shock. “No other, save my father, has ever done anything but laugh when I say this.”

I placed my hand over his, feeling the callus beneath my fingertips. “Of course I believe you.” I smiled, feeling my nose wrinkle. “I have seen and heard much of you, Arwin, and nothing I have heard or seen suggests that you are a liar.” The smile grew teasing on my face. “Indeed, I think you would be the worst liar I could ever meet.”

He stared at me, and for an instant I thought I had wounded him. But then a smile broke out on his face, and his shoulders shook with laughter. I joined him, blessing all those days I had spent at my father’s knee, serving him wine as he spoke with friends.

“And what of you?” His voice was light from laughter. “Is marriage the only thing that draws you to Lindaryon?”

I shook my head. “Hardly…I have read about the many libraries the priests keep there, full of arcane knowledge. I want to study in their towers, and learn their secrets. It is said that they have tomes dating from the First Days, from before the Exodus even…”

“And these books contain things elfkind does not already know? These old tomes you speak of?” Something in his tone suggested mockery, but it was not malicious.

I nodded. “Of course…have you not heard the legends of the power of the L’lorialyn priesthood?” I leaned closer to him, excitement welling within me. “I thought every mage knew those.”

Arwin shook his head. “I was trained by a priest, that’s so…but a priest of  Baghkri.” He withdrew a small amulet from his shirt. It was made from crudely hammered silver, wrought in the shape of a spreading oak tree. “My teacher was less concerned with godly power and more with listening to the land.”

I had heard stories of the wild gods worshipped in the Reach; it was said that the faithful tattooed their faces into frightening visages and danced naked beneath the moon’s watchful gaze. Arwin did not seem the type for such behavior, and sported no such markings. I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask him, but he held up a hand.

“I would love to continue this conversation, but my duty calls.” He gestured towards the town we were approaching. “Tomorrow, my lady.”

Arwin put heels to his mount and rode ahead, to secure our lodgings and scout the area. I watched him go, unaware that my father had ridden up next to me without my knowledge. I did not notice him until he cleared his throat, and I jumped.

“Father...” I said, feeling caught out and not knowing quite why. He seemed to find my discomfort amusing, as he smiled and ran a hand through his beard. Unlike most elves, he had been growing hair on his face since he was my age; in typical self-depreciating fashion, he had joked that his mother must have had a human in the henhouse. Unlike humans, elven beards grow straight and lustrous, instead of bushy and curly.

“I cannot help but notice the time you spend with the young tyro, Salah.” His eyes studied me. There was no need to say which one.

“He is enjoyable to talk to, Father...he speaks to me as the others do not.” It was true; the other young knights-to-be either ignored me entirely, or spoke to me as if I were several years younger.

“So I have seen. He did well in the skirmish with the bandits...but I am...curious about one thing, my daughter.” It was his turn to look uncomfortable, and I already knew the source of his discomfort. Though we elves are famous for our sensuous (some say debauched) culture, my father was made unaccountably nervous by such talk. I smiled, to put him at ease.

“Father, Arwin has not so much as laid a hand on me save in greeting.” Some part of me wished he would, but I was not about to tell my father such. “Indeed, he has been very much the gentleman.”

My father relaxed visibly. “That is good to know...I wondered, after his request to me that you be allowed to stay at the head of the column.” He looked at me again, and I fiddled with my hair, embarrassed.

“That was at my bidding, father. It’s just...I didn’t want to be confined to the carriage, because of the raid. I healed his wound, you see, and he said that it was tradition for me to ask something of him, and I asked him to tell you that...that bit about needing my magic...” I trailed off, suddenly realizing that he might take it amiss that I was avoiding my mother’s company.

He only smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “Salah...I should have known it was something like that.” He stared off into the distance, stroking his beard again. “You have always been older than your years...and I know that your mother does not often realize it.” At my beginnings of protest, he waved a hand. “No, it is all right, I have known this for quite a while. And I have no issue with your spending time with the young man.” He smiled. “He would make a fine husband, once the time has come.”

I blushed, but in truth I had already entertained such notions. A thought struck me, however. “Father, what does everyone mean when they say, ‘when the time comes’, or ‘when you’re ready’? Am I not traveling to Lindaryon to find a husband? Why not begin the search now?”

At this, he looked supremely uncomfortable. I am not surprised, looking back on it; the Dreaming isn’t easy for the girls who suffer through it. I can only imagine how the parents must feel. “That is something you must ask your mother, Salah. I am not...knowledgeable...in such things.”

“But she will not tell me either! How am I to know about this ‘Dreaming’ if no one will speak of it?” I was most frustrated by this: Everyone thought my mother should explain it, and she had evaded me for years on the subject.

“I suspect you will know soon enough, Salah.” He spurred his horse back towards the column, blushing hotly.

I cursed (once my father was out of earshot) and stared, frustrated, at the un-talkative night. It did not have the answers I wanted, either.

It was several more days before we reached Lindaryon, and when we first beheld it, I am not ashamed to admit that I gawked like a country bumpkin as we rode beneath the King’s Door. Door, they call it, even though a good-sized dragon could have comfortably passed through the massive portal. The doors were bronze instead of wood, so cunningly fashioned that they swung inward at the push of a child, so heavy they rang like a bell when shut. Intricate patterns were worked into the surface of the doors, scenes from history and legend engraved on the weathered metal.

Lindaryon is one of the most ancient cities in the world, and the inhabitants had spent a good deal of effort down through the ages on making it pleasing to the eye. Trees lined the streets and plants sprout from every conceivable nook; windowsills, cobblestone cracks, and suchlike. We rode down the ancient King’s Path, a road laid down from stone fused by sorcery into a single piece and worn smooth and shiny by the passing of countless feet. The buildings were all well kept and beautiful, and indeed I saw one of the old Oak homes, rising next to the road we traveled on. In ages past, our ancestors used spells to shape oak trees into houses and castles. The tradition had largely died out long before I was born, but I had always loved the rough beauty of such places.

In the distance, I could make out a tall structure that seemed to be spun from the very clouds above, shining with light. To my mage-trained eyes, it seemed to glow brighter than the sun. “What is that place?” I asked Arwin, who rode next to me.

“Tis the Crystal Palace, my lady. The home of the king, and the birthplace of Avalon.” He gazed at it, and I could tell from the wonder on his face that he had never seen it in person either.

I have to admit I was struck dumb as well by the beauty of it. Its towers reached impossibly thin and high, as if to provide a staircase to the home of the gods. It was not transparent, not exactly, but the sunlight streaming though it threw off rainbows in every direction. There were few straight lines or square corners; the whole thing reminded me, vaguely, of a giant tree made of spun glass.

I turned to Arwin. “I know I cannot be the first to ask such a question, but why hasn’t it broken? I know it was made when the world was young, surely something might have happened...”

Arwin’s voice came distracted as he squinted at the palace. “I don’t know exactly, my lady, but I have heard the spells cast on the Palace are old and plentiful, and surely the ancients would have done something about it…” He trailed off, still gazing at the Palace’s crystal towers. We did not talk further as the center of elfkind loomed above us.

We were greeted by a handsome young courtier in the purple and black livery of the Royal house, who bid servants to take our horses and offered us wine and sliced fruit in the traditional greeting. Father and Mother spoke to him of finding lodgings for us, but I listened only with half an ear, wanting to explore the palace. I was closely examining one of the crystalline walls when I noticed Arwin approaching me.

Chapter 2

The Prince’s Library

“I am afraid I must say goodbye, my lady,” he said without preamble.

“Goodbye!” I was shocked for a moment. “Where must you go?”

He smiled at me, eyes crinkling. “My training, my lady. I have to go finish learning sword and spell so I can become a proper knight.”

I felt sad and angry, sad because he was going, angry for allowing myself to forget what he was. “Oh.” It was all I could think to say.

He smiled, and took my hand. I almost expected him to spout some of the half-baked poetry I had heard from the other tyros, but he simply said, “I enjoyed your company, my lady. Perhaps I will see you again.”

I held his hand, and felt words flee from my head. ‘I hope so, Arwin.” It was all I could say, with those soft eyes of his holding me fast. He smiled, squeezed my hand and walked away, leading his horse. I thought about wishing him luck, but then checked myself upon remembering how he had handled the bandits. To wish him luck carried the ring of insult.

I would like to say that I thought of nothing but Arwin in the next few weeks, but it is not so. I am a scholar by inclination, and Lindaryon is built upon ancient knowledge. I soon found my way to the doors of the Royal Library, and thought of little else for some weeks. I spent most of my time there while my parents got us settled, devouring book after book like the starving devour food. It was in one of those endless nights that I met one who would change my life forever.

I had been searching for a book the keepers of the library had told me about, an ancient treatise on elemental magics supposed to contain many obscure spell