Author's Note: Here is Chapter 6! And I did it while studying for chemistry, so I'm rather proud of that. Thanks again to my lovely beta!

Chapter 6

Marak entered the infirmary, intending to speak to his military commander. She was awake, finally, after three days. However, before he could reach her bed, he was stopped by Enki, the goblin in charge of the infirmary.

"Please, Marak, Necalli is at a delicate stage. Don't upset her. And please don't encourage her to get up; I'm having enough trouble just getting her to take her medicine!" The goblin man's dog ears quivered, and his elvish blue eyes were wide with indignation.

"Why won't she take it?"

"She says it tastes terrible, which I assure you it does not, and that it makes her sleepy, which it does, and should. She needs to rest, and if you start her on some project now her recovery will be severely compromised!"

"Enki, I need her, and I need her alert. Can't you give her something else?"

"No."

"Then I'll have to do something."

"Marak, this is the fourth time you've healed her in two months!" Enki nearly wailed. "It's not healthy for her to be healed by the King's magic every time she has a serious wound. Colds and coughs are one thing, even cuts and broken bones, but you've been healing her from infected, deep wounds. Sometimes it's better to let the body and its own natural magic take care of things by themselves, or she'll never build up immunities to disease. You're only making her more vulnerable, especially since Troll weapons are nearly always covered in something nasty. Not to mention the increasingly dangerous missions."

"Are you concerned merely as a doctor for his patient Enki, or is there more to this?"

Enki flushed, his silvery skin darkening.

Do I have to answer that?"

Marak laughed.

"No, you don't, but I'm still going to her."

Enki grabbed his arm, then hastily let go when Marak glared at him.

"Just… please think about what I said."

The Goblin King nodded briefly and strode into the room. Necalli was sitting up in bed. She brightened when she saw Marak, smiling with all her many sharp teeth, though Marak felt his heart sink slightly. She was better, certainly, but her normally dark green scales were pale and flaking off, and it was out of season for her to be shedding. Her orange eyes, though bright, had deep green, almost black circles beneath them. The wound in her shoulder was hidden with layers of bandages, but he could see that it still pained her.

"Marak, please tell that little buffoon I'm well enough to leave and to stop taking that horrible concoction. A potion that tastes like something a dog threw up can't be good for me."

"And have you tasted anything a dog threw up lately for purposes of comparison?"

She made a face at him.

"Necalli, Enki does know what he's doing. Though in this case, what he's doing won't work quickly enough for our purposes. I need to heal you."

She sighed in relief.

"But you still need to take your medicine."

"Marak—"

"That's an order, Commander."

She scowled, but nodded briefly.

"Now why do you have to heal me?"

"I have a plan, or at least the beginnings of one."

"I like the sound of that."

"Tell me, Necalli, how many human books have you read? The ones that were brought from the Old World."

"A fair number."

"Did you read the Aeneid?"

Alma sat beside the Troll King at the heavily laden banquet table as she had for the previous three nights. The food was rather strange—many trolls enjoyed raw meat, for instance. Generally it was beef or goat meat, though at the last banquet there had been a wild boar. Thankfully, they seemed to know that raw meat is usually not to the taste of a human, and so everything she was served was cooked. Vegetables and fruits were in short supply. The King had explained that trolls were not particularly fond of farming, leaving that task for servants to do. Alma had asked about the human servants then, a subject she realized he had avoided for the first two days.

"This world is not particularly kind to your race Alma," he'd said, taking a drink of wine. She'd been offered the wine and refused it. "There are the goblins, of course, and sadly fighting between humans and goblins and trolls and goblins left deep wounds. You have no innate magic, you see."

Alma had been somewhat disappointed by that pronouncement. He'd noticed and given her a small smile.

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true; though in your world, I understand humans are the dominant species. It would seem some forces can counteract magic."

"But... the human servants?"

"It's the only way for them to survive. They're paid and treated well, and it's far better than trying to survive in the wild. I've heard some humans managed to find their way to warmer climates, but it's largely heresy. Some people even say the goblins trade with humans from beyond the seas, but they generally say that after they've had a few cups of wine. So most humans stay, and it's a harsh world. The winters here are wilder and colder than you would know, and the soil is poor in this forest. It's difficult to scrape a living. Even the elves struggle; I heard that they entered into a treaty with the goblins' last King, giving him a bride in exchange for food."

Alma was not to know that the elves had only needed food because the trolls had burned down a large section of forest and driven away game for miles. She almost asked how the servants were paid since there was no evidence of coin or any kind of money anywhere, but the question seemed to fall through the cracks in her brain.

"Why aren't there any elves here?"

The Troll King snorted.

"Catch an elf living inside. They're proud—they only live with goblins when abducted. We won't force them to live here."

The last elf slave of the trolls had finally succeeded in her suicide attempt three months earlier.

Alma now sighed. The Troll King always answered her questions, though sometimes he seemed to be concealing things. In addition, sometimes she had a burning question to ask, only to forget it the moment he smiled at her. On occasion she would remember the question later and curse herself for forgetting, but other times she would fruitlessly wrack her brains for hours and not remember at all.

She wanted to go home, of course she did. The King said the gateway was being repaired. He'd been very courteous about it, she thought. He was always interested in her opinions, which Alma had a great many of. Over the course of the three days, he'd managed to tease varied information out of her, from her favorite color (green), to what annoyed her most about her mother (the endless lectures). Almost every view she held met with approval, and he frequently praised her intelligence, citing her as a credit to humans. Alma had the vague idea that there was something offensive about that. Three days earlier she probably would have slapped him, but three days in the company of the Troll King was having its effect.

Even thoughts of home were steadily fading. She had to concentrate to remind herself that she needed to go home, that her parents were worried, that she had a previous life. Something about that rang warning bells in her head—Alma had read many books concerning brainwashed heroines—but she ignored them. After all, she was much cleverer than those silly creatures. She would never be silly enough to fall for any of those tricks.

In truth, life with the trolls held everything Alma thought she wanted. She was rarely bored, what with exploring the fortress and the various entertainments. Troll music was one of the things she enjoyed most, sounding like traditional Japanese koto music had a love child with some Irish folk songs. She had fine clothes that were made from spiders' silk. Trolls kept large spiders for the purposes of silk making. Much to Alma's disappointment, none of the spiders were above the size of a small dog, and all were thoroughly domesticated.

There were also servants, and everyone treated her with a certain amount of deference. This would mean rather a lot to any girl of seventeen years, most of whom assume the world revolves around them, anyway. Alma was no exception, and had the added disadvantage of being intelligent and knowing it. She was used to a certain amount of awe from her peers, along with the assumption she would always do well and have plenty of money. Having servants seemed the continuation of the natural order of things. It was for this reason she didn't ask the name of her assigned maid, notice her many bruises, realize the girl never spoke to her, or see the ill-disguised contempt on the girl's face when she looked at her mistress.

José Rivera stared into space. His guitar was on his lap, but he did not play it. Aliane had come to him earlier, asking if he needed anything. Their daughter being the one thing in the world they both needed was left unsaid. However, some semblance of doing something was better than the endless waiting.

The police were still searching for Alma; examining the footprints around the bonfire, which seemed to end at a sheer wall of rock. There had been talk of dredging the lake, but somehow it had been agreed that it wasn't a good idea.

Now Aliane was gone as well. She'd been going in and out all day, once snapping at him when he tried to see what she was removing from her suitcase. After that, she'd come in only that once to ask if he'd needed anything, and then vanished again. Even through his fog of grief and exhaustion, José recognized that she was behaving oddly.

As oddly as anyone who's lost a daughter, he reminded himself. Still, he'd seen Aliane stricken with grief before, and he'd seen her deal with crises before. She was different now. She had answered the questions of the police with barely concealed impatience, and barely took any interest in the search parties when he had assumed she would want to take full control. Instead, she was hurrying about on secretive errands that he didn't need to know about. Not that it was the first time.

He knew there were things in Aliane's past that she hadn't told him, and that her family on her mother's side was…odd. Eventually he decided that she would tell him when and if she was ready, and it wasn't his place to judge her. Now he was wondering if that was the right decision.

Half-formed conspiracy theories swam through José's mind, the imagination that had blessed his career as a musician working against him. Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. He trusted his wife; he always had and wasn't about to start doubting her now. He was just frightened, tired, and trying to avoid blaming himself for dragging them out here.

Still.

José got up and wandered over to the suitcases. Aliane's was not locked. It was almost empty since she had moved her clothes to the drawers in the room. He felt about inside, with no idea what he was looking for. His hand briefly caught on something—a small, hidden catch. When he pressed it, a small section of the suitcase just above the wheels opened. Inside was a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He removed it, uncertain of what he would find.

The cloth revealed several small boxes and José opened them. In one box, there were several small statues of what looked like mummies made of turquoise. Shabtis, he thought, remembering visiting museums with Aliane when they were dating.

The next box held some odd looking jewelry, and José's sketchy knowledge of Egyptian culture, largely acquired to impress his wife, failed him. He did recognize some golden symbols which were meant for protection.

He opened the third box, and swallowed. The box contained real mummies of birds. Upon that realization, he closed the box very quickly.

The fourth box gave him a bad feeling. He swiftly opened it, revealing several small, tightly rolled scrolls. There was an empty space in the box for one more; presumably Aliane had taken it with her. He removed one and unrolled it. Written on the paper—written by hand, not printed, he noted—were hieroglyphs, drawn in red and black. Something about the paper bothered him. It seemed malevolent, almost hungry. José hurriedly put it back in its place.

Stupid, he chided himself. It's a piece of paper!

Still, it bothered him. Stories from his childhood and his moralizing grandmother stirred in his memory. José was not superstitious, at least, in the same way a religious man would not consider himself superstitious. José was not particularly religious, but he firmly held to the vague belief that there was far more in the universe than science could explain. He was the one who had built fairy houses in the garden with his daughter and had told her fantastic stories that he himself half-believed.

Now he saw magic. He refused to admit to himself that it was magic because he was very tired and his basic faith in the world had been severely shaken in the past three days.

However, despite his refusal to admit it, he did know. It was not in his heart that the hidden knowledge resided; the heart had quite enough to do with the pumping of blood throughout his body. Instead, the knowledge chose to manifest as an odd sensation somewhere within the vicinity of his liver. Unfortunately, like most people, José had little idea of where his liver was and what it was supposed to feel like at the best of times, so he ignored the sensation. Feeling incredibly guilty, he then returned the cloth bundle to its proper place in the suitcase.

Aliane placed the scroll and small bird mummy back in her purse. It had been a simple spell; very small, and the bird mummy had been enough to power it. The spell revealed the presence of goblins. She'd done it all the time when she was younger, hoping against hope that the telltale dark spots on the ground would appear and she could catch one. Now she stood with her worst fears confirmed: the forest floor before the cliff face was completely black.