Chapter 2
Eremiel closed her eyes and focused, reaching out towards her father's quarters. Yes, she was only fourteen and many elves considered her to be little more than an infant, but in the human world, she was nearly an adult. Besides that, even children ought to have a say in their own fate. Who did her father think he was, anyway? He was only the king of Aloníria, not a god, but he fancied himself to be one when it came to his daughter. Eremiel could hardly remember the last time he had allowed her presence while he made a decision about her. The magic seeped through her, and then her father's voice became clear.
"The others may have come this way, and if that is so, they cannot know about Eremiel. It would be highly imprudent, dangerous even to consider such a thing with her… affliction. It is cause for war – they would never accept it if they found out. You ought to know this best of all, Laerä, after all your troubles," Father urged.
Eremiel resisted her desire to punch something or wreak other havoc upon her surroundings. So it was an affliction now, was it? It wasn't like this particular difference was his fault or anything – oh no, it was an affliction like a human disease. Father was so… dogmatic. It had taken her three years of begging and pleading and shouting and cursing at him before he had even allowed her to train in archery and knife-throwing, which bore little danger even to an eleven-year-old child with a proper teacher. And horseback riding. He had been afraid that swift elven horses would be too fast and wild for her, so she'd convinced another child to teach her in secret. Needless to say, nothing horrible had happened to either of them.
The only thing he had ever allowed her to learn without a struggle was politics, and that was probably because she was his only child and heir; so if he died, she would probably be forced to rule, or at least become highly involved in political affairs. Of course, she rarely got a chance to use her diplomatic skills, as she was "too young" to attend council. Eremiel sighed exasperatedly and muttered an impolite phrase in a human tongue under her breath. He was supposedly so wise, too. That was how he'd become king even though his brother was older than him and would usually have had claim to the crown – his overwhelming wisdom beyond his years.
She was about to lean over and bang her head against the wall, but then she heard a door open and her father's step echoed through the corridor. That was something she liked about her particular brand of magic – she could hear things that even other elves found inaudible, and they were distinctive to her. Eremiel could also shroud her sounds from others, so she could conceivably clomp through halls and corridors like a galloping horse and no one would ever hear her. Once when she was younger and had just discovered that side of her magic, she had hidden in the room next door to her father and mother and sang at the top of her lungs to see if they would notice. They hadn't. Ever since then, she had used her gifts for eavesdropping and spying whenever she deemed it necessary, which was most of the time, because that was how often her father was given to making decisions without her.
Unfortunately, many years back, the change that had been wrought upon the elves and had granted them magical abilities, which made her magic possible, also included the somewhat telepathic ability to perceive, locate, and intrude upon other consciousnesses; which meant Eremiel's father was always able to find her. It also meant that she had to be at a distance when spying on him, or he would notice her presence and she would be in for a long and tedious scolding. She could hear how it would go already – the cadence of his voice would lengthen into a singsong drone and he would go on and on about her mother and things that had happened thousands of years before her birth and in no way pertained to her actions. At some point her attention would start to wander off the continent – or given their current position, on to one – and then he would notice and start over. It would be glorious.
A different but still familiar step echoed down the hall as her father's passed by her door without hesitating. Eremiel identified it in an instant.
The door clicked open, and a light, airy voice greeted, "Kvetha, Erél." Eremiel only nodded curtly at her friend's fond salutation. The young elf continued jocosely, "How fares the princess of Aloníria?"
Eremiel rolled her eyes, and replied, "I'm not sure to whom you are referring. There seems to be some sort of helpless child, but surely she's not yet old enough to answer such a question herself. Perhaps you might ask her father instead?"
Lafián, her friend, only smiled. "He grieves you so – I wonder that you share much of the same blood as he. I remember the day when you convinced me to teach you to ride against the king's orders… What sours your thoughts of him today?"
Lafián twirled a finger through her shining golden hair and raised one eyebrow expectantly, but Eremiel only sighed exasperatedly.
"Come, Erél, tell me what has happened. It's likelier than not that you've told me as much in the past," she pressed slightly impatiently.
Eremiel took a deep breath, but instead of calming down, her heart only began to pound faster and she could feel the heat rising up in her, ready to explode at any moment. Her hand clenched into a fist and Lafián winced at the coming burst of anger. Eremiel only just manage to use her magic to block the sound from unwelcome ears before she started.
"He called it an affliction. He called the circumstances of my birth an affliction. He chose her! Nothing forced him to choose my mother as a mate but his own feelings. How can he feel as if my birth, my blood is not a result of what he has done? He must, for all his wisdom, understand that I am his child. If – "
She cut herself off before she could say anymore. Not even Lafián could know what she was thinking; that if her father thought her birth was afflicted, then he must also view her as a mistake, something that never should have happened in the first place. The King of Aloníria must think of her as a blemish. But if that's what Eremiel was, she was going to be his personal blemish. As long as he was going to regret her birth, she might as well make him rue it entirely. After all, why not? A mistake could never possibly glean more than a look of slight approbation, and even that would be more effort than it was worth.
"… You have that look, Erél; the look you had when you went exploring in the caves almost only because your father had forbidden it. Is it in my best interests, or yours, to know what you think?" Lafián said, staring at Eremiel's forehead rather than her intense, golden-brindled brown eyes.
Eremiel grinned mischievously and replied, "No, decidedly not."
Lafián sighed. Little Erél, as in six or seven year old Erél, had never been so disobedient; had never argued so much with her father. But then again, her mother had been alive and had devoted all her attention to raising her little girl. Lafián was twenty-seven – still very much an elven child, but old enough to remember those years with clarity. She was old enough also to remember the slow process of Eremiel's mother's death; her suffering under a mortal disease that the elves could not understand. None of their kind ever had disease, and when something terrible came, they did not know how to cure it. That was what had driven Eremiel and her father apart – Erél couldn't understand how her father's powerful magicians had failed to cure her mother. Something in her did not believe that they had not known how, that there had been nothing to be done.
"Please, Erél," Lafián implored, touched by the sorrowful memory, "talk to him. Be reasonable. You need not argue so strongly against him."
Eremiel's jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. Opening them slowly, she responded tensely, "I have tried being reasonable, Lafián. I have tried not to question him, but rather to trust his word as well. I cannot, however, allow him to dictate my every movement and every sound because he is afraid. He may be my father, but he doesn't own me; he can't control me like a slave. I simply won't permit it. With the things he has said, and those he has left unsaid, I cannot abide by his bigotry any longer. I am finished."
With this, she got up and swept out the door, ignoring Lafián, who flinched as she passed. The wood beneath her feet pitched suddenly, but she kept her balance easily and then flew up the ladder. She burst onto the deck, and, paying no heed to multiple warnings and greetings given to her, fairly attacked the riggings as she started to climb up the mast of the ship. The sea was sparkling blue in all directions, but Eremiel couldn't appreciate the beauty. The thought of her father, the illustrious king of Aloníria, the newly nomadic country was like a blot on the horizon. Her hand reached up and drew her closer to the crow's nest, and then her father's voice snapped through the air in the ancient language.
"Eremiel! Come away from there at once! I desire to speak with you!"
She cursed inwardly, now realizing the content of the other elves' warnings. Hesitating for half a second, she considered climbing higher just to spite him, and then she reluctantly began her descent, relinquishing the height she had gained just moments before. When she was about ten feet from the deck, she let go and pushed away from the mast, alighting soundlessly on the smooth, dark wood. She could almost hear him sighing with disapproval.
"Yes, Father?" she asked innocently, approaching him. "Is something the matter?"
Útíradien motioned sternly but elegantly to the cabin on deck. "I wish for us to be alone," he answered.
So that you may tell me privately how much you regret my birth, Eremiel finished silently. Whatever you say, milord. I am, apparently, yours to command. She followed him wordlessly inside and sat at the table in the center of the room.
"I have come to tell you that – " he began in his deep, mellifluous voice.
Eremiel interrupted, "You have a secret affinity for dramatic poetry readings of ancient histories but only I can know about it?"
"No, I – "
"Well that's a pity. It sounded entertaining."
"Erél, silence!" the king exclaimed, already exasperated. She looked up at him sweetly, indicating for him to continue.
He took a deep breath and began again. "In naught but a few days, we shall reach the shore of whatever land we have come upon. When we disembark, there is something I would like you to promise me."
"Am I promising this when we disembark, or now? I wasn't very sure," Eremiel asked with a grin.
Her father, who hated wisecracking, stared at her with deep distaste before continuing, "This may well be the land to which the Warfarers sailed. That fact alone may endanger us in this place. However, our peril would be multiplied tenfold if they knew of your bloodline. You shall not reveal it to anyone we may encounter, or speak of it to any of our people while we remain here. Is that clear?"
"Yes," Eremiel replied, and her father seemed momentarily relieved. She laughed inwardly at his naïveté. Then, she added, "But, Father, it seems to me that you are much more likely than I am to reveal my… secret. It is, without fail, you who broaches the topic in conversation. I am content to let my bloodline rest, but you continue to pull it so taut it nearly snaps. Are you certain that you will not endanger us? I'm quite concerned, sir."
Útíradienseemed to resist the urge to bang his head against the wall and then throttle his daughter. Probably it would have solved his problems more efficiently if he hadn't held himself in check.
"Erél, contain yourself," he said through his teeth. She calmly observed the clenched muscles in his neck. "I speak so often of your bloodline not out of a lack of self-control, but rather an attempt to keep you safe. No matter how often I impress the severity of your heritage upon you, you do not seem to understand its importance. Eremiel – "
She cut him off again. Sometimes she really had to wonder how he could keep control of a country. "Evidently, you failed to grasp the 'severity' of my heritage when you chose my mother! Most likely you could have had any woman you wanted, and you picked her. You must have been horribly irresponsible to have done such a thing. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?"
He flushed slightly, his haughty, pale cheeks darkening to light pink. "That is not of your concern. I had my reasons for what I did and you shall not question them."
"No," she snapped, her hands clenching into fists, "I shall follow you blindly to the ends of the earth and back again, and if we are to perish for your reasons, if we are to burn in flames for your reasons, I shall not question them. You cannot, sire, fall prey to any fallacies of the world. I submit to you."
Her father stood up suddenly and turned away, frustrated by Eremiel's childishness. This was why he had not allowed the fourteen-year-old to discuss this when he had spoken with his attendants. She would only have caused a scene and publicly have undermined his authority. A child of this nature was stuck between ages, too old to be called a babe and too young to be sensible.
"A sharpened sword will cut its master as swiftly as it will a foe," he warned her.
She retorted, "Never having used a sword, I am not well familiar with their natures. You ought well to understand, however, that a misaimed arrow may cost a battle."
"A battle lost may win a war," the king reminded sternly.
At this, Eremiel exclaimed, "Then why not lose the battle, just for once? Would the consequences be so dire?"
"Yes, Erél, as I have told you since your mother's death, they would not be light," he answered, exasperated.
"Every word of yours is hypocritical!" she burst out. "How can you rule a country when you cannot believe in the words you say, when your actions don't reflect your policies? Is this why our people are lost, banished from our home? Is this why our remnant has fled to sea? Because you are as inept a king as you are a father?"
His eyes flashed dangerously, and he raised a fist as if to strike her. She did not flinch, but only stared at him accusingly as if daring him to hurt her. With some visible effort, he lowered his hand to his side and took a deep breath.
"You are out of line, child," he said, his voice lowering to a dangerous calm.
Eremiel was undeterred. "I prefer curves," she answered quickly. "They have much more… personality."
It was more than foolish, she knew, to keep going after he had come so close to beating her, but she couldn't stop herself. He had never laid a finger on her before, and she could not believe he would do it now, when the mark of his anger would be on display so clearly for all their people to see. More than that, however, her anger had not yet subsided, and she could hardly control herself.
"It is possible to have too much personality," muttered the king of Aloníria.
"But also too little," Eremiel amended.
Highly agitated, her father exclaimed, "Eremiel Nostarén Drӧttningu! Is it necessary that you contradict each word I say?"
"No, but I find it an amusing way to pass the time," she replied.
"Who am I," he asked tightly, "to deserve so much of your scorn?"
A dam seemed to burst inside Eremiel, and she explained, "You are a closed-minded, arrogant, egotistical, conceitedly pretentious, narcissistic, dogmatic, intolerant, obstinate, peremptory, tyrannical…" She started to trail of as she struggled for more words, and then finished, "sorry excuse for a father!"
Útíradien's jaw set and his brown eyes, so like his daughter's, flashed with anger. "Leave this cabin," he commanded through gritted teeth, "and return to your quarters. I tire of your foolishness."
The girl stood up and met his eyes, her chin cocked upward defiantly. Then she turned and strode away disdainfully, looking straight ahead as she opened the cabin door and passed the other elves, all of whom were trying not to look interested. Below deck, where there were fewer people to notice her, she started to run, and as she reached her room, slammed the door angrily without bothering to conceal the sound. She breathed hard for a long while, and the conversation rang in her ears. At least she was good at bothering him; that had been her new goal anyway. She ran the back of her hand over her eyes, banishing any tears that were coming – she would not be so weak as to cry at a simple argument.
Then, she stepped out of her boots, shrugged off her outer layer of clothing, and curled up miserably on her hammock. It swayed back and forth slightly as the waves rocked the ship, and it reminded her of curling up in her mother's arms and letting her rock her gently to sleep. Eremiel closed her eyes and tried to pretend she really was falling slowly to sleep on her mother's lap, and the soft croon of the wind outside the ship was the gentle timbre of her mother's voice.
It could be telling the stories she always used to say; the legends about how the stars are the souls of those who have passed, and the souls of those the living loved still watch over them. Or it could be that poem about the sea, the one that said it was the same only in that it was always changing, one moment calm and the next caught up in a raging tempest. How comforting, Eremiel thought, when all that remains of one's country is on a ship in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the fickle waters.
Which, if she considered it, only made her feel worse. Before she could depress herself further, Eremiel stood up and started to pace from edge to edge of her quarters. Thirty paces each direction. Probably it was meant for multiple people, but she was the only occupant. She had to wonder if her father wanted to separate her from the others to keep her out of trouble. At least that meant she had enough space to dance. For a human, it might have been difficult to balance with the ship dipping back and forth periodically, but she was not human. Carefully, she untied her hammock from the metal rings it was attached to, and then she let it fall against one wall in a crumpled heap. She dropped the clothes that she'd removed near it and returned to the center of the smooth wooden floor.
Eremiel took a deep breath, and then slowly swept her arms out in front of her, as if literally clearing the air, pushing her forearms first and then letting her wrists snap back elegantly as her foot slid forward into a point. She paused there for a moment, and then, coming to life, she took two running steps and flew into a graceful twist. The momentum carried as she landed, and she pirouetted, lifting into a full split as she spun. Then she was off, as if controlled by music only she could hear. It seemed to surround her, and soon the dance was all she could feel.
When she danced, she felt powerful. She felt like she was in control and the world was hers, no one's but hers to do with as she pleased. Every jump, every arch of her back, every step was her choice and hers alone. She was the master of her fate. Nothing else mattered – not her father or memories of her mother that haunted her so. Eremiel leaped and arched, her front leg straight and pointed and her back leg bent, and as she landed, she heard herself laugh, releasing weeks of pent up emotions. She was letting them all go, one by one, movement by movement. With each step, she felt lighter and stronger until at last she felt as if she were no longer tethered to the ground, and instead she was an angel, graceful, powerful, and free. At last, she stepped into a final flip, and then landed upright, her arms outstretched and reaching for the sky and her eyes gazing through the layers of wood and to the heavens far above.
Her chest heaving, she dropped her arms and smiled with relief. Then she walked slowly, languidly to the pile of clothes and hammock and lay down, content that there would be an answer to her problems. Somehow she would prove to her father that she was more than just a child and that her bloodline didn't matter. She would convince him that she was not a mistake someday, when his mind would be open to the concept. Still… it would have been easier for Eremiel to put up with her father's folly were she at home, where everything was more familiar, less confined, and more comfortable.
But, she reminded herself, the entire population of their country would have died had they not left when they did. The Sluaghya would have killed them. The girl remembered the first time she had seen one of them kill an elf, and she shivered at how close she had been to the victim.
It had been the Agaetí Fyrnmanin, the celebration commemorating the end of the Fyrn abr Blӧdh, the War of Bloodlines. Víraenya had been singing "Thringaya Silbena," which meant "Sighing Rains" and told the sorrows of the war both in great passion and detail. It was sung unaccompanied, and that made it all the more haunting and riveting to all. The red sun was setting over the horizon, as tradition dictated, and the darkness was crawling across the world. That was why none, not even Eremiel, had noticed the shadow looming too far for the trees to have cast it. The quick, heavy wing beats had only been the brush of wind through branches, nothing more. And then Sanpharae had cried out not far from Eremiel, and she had whirled to face him. By then it was already too late.
A creature had materialized, above him, its great, heavy talons digging into his shoulders as he twisted to free himself. Eremiel stumbled back, reaching for a knife and realizing they were all unarmed even as Sanpharae's sister cried out a spell against the creature. Green fire lanced out at the beast, and Eremiel felt its heat, but the monster only stretched out its huge, leathery black wings and waited for a moment as it seemed to absorb the fire and nullify its power. The air chilled around them. Then the creature screeched, a grating, ghoulish sound that made Eremiel want to scream and cover her ears. She did not realize until afterwards that it had been laughing.
Another voice called one of the twelve words for death, but only to the same effect. This time, the magic was invisible, but the Sluagh absorbed the energy all the same. Then, it pulled back and lifted from Sanpharae's bleeding shoulders. Eremiel knew it was retreating to strike again. The young elf swayed and collapsed to his knees, and Eremiel braced herself to run and tackle him out of the way. Before she could move, a second Sluagh streaked in from the darkening sky and tore at Sanpharae's neck, wounding him severely. This time Eremiel did not hesitate, but threw herself headlong onto Sanpharae and curled over him like a shield. She heard the cries of warning, dismay, and magic distantly, but none of them had any effect on the Sluaghya, which collided with her, tearing into her side. Eremiel screamed and tumbled off Sanpharae.
She lay on her back, trying to push herself upward against the pain of the wound, while both Sluaghya charged again; now ready to kill both of him.
A strong voice shouted, "Skӧlir!" and a shield sprang up around the two of them.
In the brief moments of safety, Eremiel located her father as the spellcaster. The Sluaghya, suspecting another offensive attack, were briefly trumped by the shield, and two elves streaked in to save the injured pair.
Her eyes cast upward, where the Sluaghya were attacking the shield and beginning to drain the energy from it, Eremiel gasped, "Sanpharae. Please, Sanpharae – he's dying, needs help."
Meanwhile, the other elves, realizing that magic may have an effect if the Sluaghya were taken unawares, attacked them with renewed efforts. But the energy the Sluaghya had taken from the magic before seemed to strengthen them, and they stifled each of the elves' tremendous efforts. Eremiel felt the elves lift her up instead and she understood – she was Drӧttningu, so she was their first priority. The shield gave way, and Sanpharae was abandoned, bleeding out on the ground, while Eremiel shouted at the elves carrying her away and every other elf who could possibly have tried to save him. Then, a Sluagh swooped down and, closing its talons around his side, lifted him in the air and bore him away. The other stayed briefly to deflect the magic for its partner, and then it flew after it. By then, several elves had summoned or ran to find their bows, but the energy the Sluaghya had absorbed seemed to make them supernaturally powerful, and they dodged every arrow.
Soon the monsters were out of sight, and the elves began to wail in mourning for their young companion. Útíradien urgently led his people into the palace, out of the reach of the creatures. All this time, Eremiel had been struggling against her captors' arms, but when they laid her on a table near her father, she went limp and then began to tremble.
"Surely," Útíradien objected, "it was not necessary for the both of you to carry one as light as this child! Could you not have saved the boy as well?"
That was true – they could have saved him, she knew they could have saved him, but they had chosen to shield her instead. But there was something wrong about that statement, something callous or cold that she couldn't detect. She did not realize until later that her father had not been concerned for her while she lay bleeding on a table – he was only angry that they had not tried harder to save Sanpharae. "This child" – that was what he had called her – not "Eremiel" or "Erél" or even "my daughter," just "this child." There was no particular familial affection in the way he said it, no indication of worry for that child's safety.
They fought about it later, in the midst of all the chaos and fear Aloníria had been cast into. The Sluaghya came again and again, and the warriors rarely ever managed to wound them, but they fought over what he had said that day and over what it had meant, whether or not he loved her or even cared the slightest bit about her. Their world was falling to chaos, and all they could do was fight. One of the only times Eremiel could remember being with her father and not quarreling was the very next morning after the first attack. And that was only because they had found Sanpharae's body.
Some of her father's men had ventured out cautiously in the morning, hoping that the Sluaghya would not dare to attack them in the full morning light. They had been traveling unmolested and were beginning to relax when they spotted him. A limp mass lay still near the shore of the lake, and they sensed that it was dead. The skies seemed clear, so they advanced carefully to take a closer look. In just moments, they were all but sure. One of them, who had been like Sanpharae's mentor, burst out with a cry and ran towards the corpse. He saw the mangled flesh and congealed blood and wept his grief, twisting his hand upward and placing it over his heart. And then he saw the young elf's eyes.
They were black; not just in the pupil or the iris, but fully and completely black, as dark as if they were empty sockets. It was as if the color and light had drained out of him with his life. Eremiel did not see them herself, as his eyes had already been closed at the funeral, but she saw the same phenomenon on later victims. It chilled her, unsettled her, made her want to flee the body and never stop running, not until she came to a land where no one died, where there was no sadness, where everyone was always safe. And then she would know that could never happen, and she could hardly see the point of continuing at all. After the first few victims, it was even worse.
Her father had gone to visit the human communities nearby, as he had not done since Eremiel was perhaps three years old, and he took her with him this time to keep an eye on her. They saw the smoke, thick and black, rising up in a nightmarish cloud before they were halfway there. The stench of burning flesh assailed their noses just moments later. The king looked at Eremiel, asking her silently if she could bear to continue. She glared at him resentfully, as if he had meant the inquiry as a direct challenge of her strength. They kept moving, their eyes beginning to water as they approached the flames. When they arrived, they saw them for what they were – a funeral pyre to the victims of the Sluaghya.
An old, weathered woman with wispy white hair and deep set wrinkles detached herself from the somber gathering around the pyre and approached them cautiously. At least, Eremiel assumed she was old – that was the impression the woman's appearance gave her. But she had never seen a human before, so she supposed she couldn't be absolutely sure.
"Do you come to bring us aid?" she asked in a trembling tone.
Útíradien stared mournfully at the pyre. "Are these the victims of the monsters that have attacked us as of late?"
"It is so, sir," replied the woman, casting her eyes downward. "Do you know much of them?"
The smoke seemed to enchant her father, so Eremiel replied, "No, Mistress; we have only encountered them on but a few occasions. We came to listen to your knowledge of the beasts, should you have any."
The woman's despair was almost palpable. There would be no help for them. Still, she answered, "We know but a little, but what knowledge we have we shall share."
Her father seemed to come out of his trance, inclining his head as a laconic sign of thanks.
"Come inside," she said, motioning to a small, derelict hut, "where the smoke is not so cloying."
They followed her indoors, but the sloping walls did little to alleviate the pungent odor. Eremiel tried not to think of how the ash they had inhaled was all that remained of human beings. She did not want to remember that she was breathing them in, but she couldn't avoid the morbid thought. Bile rose into the back of her throat. The three sat down on the cold dirt floor.
"Now, let me see… Where shall I begin?" murmured the old woman.
The king replied, "Have these beasts a name? Have they been seen before in these skies?"
"Yes, yes, they have a name, though they have not been seen before on this land," she answered slowly, "My family has kept the histories of our people since generations long past, when we wandered in lands far to the east. It was there that they attacked us. They are called Sluagh, miserable creatures both in life and now in death."
"In death? Now?" Eremiel exclaimed, startled. "What do you mean to say?"
She took a deep breath and explained, "Legend has it that Sluagh are the spirits of those who have passed which have been rejected by both heaven and hell. They prey at night on the unsuspecting, especially children, who are pure. It is said that Sluagh capture their victims and consume their souls, leaving the bodies for their families to find in the morning. That is why the eyes become black – because the eyes are the windows to the soul, and these have no soul."
The elves, who didn't believe in heaven, hell, or even any gods found this dubious, but Útíradien did manage to pick a couple useful tidbits of information from the superstition. Eremiel shivered because as the youngest child in their kingdom, it was especially likely that the Sluaghya would target her.
"You are certain that they attack only at night?" pressed her father urgently.
"That is what the tales say," confirmed the woman. "What is more, they have never attacked us here during the hours of light. But from dusk until dawn," she warned, "do not dare venture from your home or you shall be lost."
"I thank you for your advice," said the king thoughtfully.
Eremiel's eyebrows furrowed, and she continued, "But why, then, have so many here perished?"
The woman looked at her with tears glimmering in her deep eyes. "Our homes are insufficient to keep the Sluagh away. They simply attack until the house begins to collapse, and then there is no escape."
"Then you have no refuge?" asked Eremiel, horrified.
"No, child," said the woman desperately. Looking to Útíradien, she pleaded, "Please, sir, I beg of you – shelter our people or we shall all perish."
Eremiel turned to her father pleadingly; their walls were stronger than those built by human hands – surely he would grant them refuge? She was about to ask him when she felt his consciousness touch hers. He did not want to discuss this in front of the old woman.
You wish me to grant them asylum. Is that correct, Erél? His tone was cautious, unsure.
Yes, Father. Our walls will not give as theirs do, and we are far more likely to discover how we might defeat the creatures, she entreated.
He was still dubious. And yet our walls cannot endure forever, and when they cave, I cannot truly guarantee the safety of our own people, let alone that of these humans. Harboring them would as well draw even more of the monsters to our city. It would be more prudent to leave them here.
More prudent for our people, yes, but cruel beyond the measure of words! Eremiel exclaimed. If your mind is set, then at least consider bringing the children, Father. Please.
He reminded, We have been told that the Sluaghya target first the children, and then the adults. It would be extremely unwise, Erél, to take them back to the city.
They will not take the children if they cannot reach them. And as my father, objected Eremiel, issuing an ultimatum, if you care for me, then you understand their parents' pain. If you love me, you will save the children.
Resigned, her father replied, The children shall accompany us, but no more. We cannot afford the danger.
Thank you, Father, she said. Then impulsively, she added, And when did "Sluagh" become "Sluaghya"? "Sluagh" for one, "Sluaghya" for two or more?
Slightly chagrined, he answered, Exactly. If we are to use the word, then it may well be in accordance with the rules of our language.
Then, aloud, he said, "We are willing to shelter your children, but we have the means to do no more. Should you gather them quickly, we shall be able to reach the city before nightfall."
The tears spilled over from the woman's eyes. "I thank you, sire. Anything that you can do is well-appreciated. Let us… go and speak to the others."
So they emerged from the hut and the woman called a gathering. Útíradien explained his proposal succinctly, and Eremiel was startled at how quickly each of the parents agreed to relinquish their children. They must have been truly desperate to send their children away in just a few minutes, to wave goodbye and tell them not to look back. To know that they would die without ever seeing their children again. But they did it. They gathered their children and sent them away with Eremiel and her father, grieving already but resolute. It was the children who cried and wanted to stay, who clung to their parents, their aunts and uncles and begged them not to make them go. But soon enough, they had agreed to go, and the company was on its way.
There were twelve children Eremiel's age or older, and seven younger. That was all; the rest had been killed either by the Sluaghya or disease. The older ones looked after the younger children, but they all looked ragged and weary. Eremiel picked up a little boy, about five, who was half-asleep on his feet. She had never seen other children younger than herself, and she had never visited the humans before, so she found the children intriguing. The little boy lacked some of the natural grace and beauty that elven children had, but she decided that he was actually quite cute and his awkwardness was endearing.
He had little straw-blond curls and a very round face, a button nose, and sleepy pale blue eyes, and his arms were locked trustingly around Eremiel's neck. He laid his head in the crook of her neck and closed his eyes. Soon he was breathing softly, and Eremiel realized he was asleep. She started to notice the other children glancing timidly at her and her father, like they wanted to ask something but weren't sure how. She met the eyes of a girl about her age, who smiled shyly. She smiled back, which gave the girl enough courage to ask her a question.
"Where are we going, exactly?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Eremiel replied, "Aloníria. That's our city – the elven city."
"Will we be safe there?"
Hesitantly, she answered, "You will definitely be safer, but I cannot say for sure that you will be safe. We have been attacked there as well, but they have only been able to take but a few of us."
The girl bit her lip nervously, and then a boy, perhaps ten, piped up, "Are there lots of children in the city?"
Eremiel shook her head. "Not as you would see them. I am the only child younger than twenty years among us."
Now a little girl chirped, "That must be lonely. Don't you have any friends?"
"I do, of course, but sometimes it is lonely," she said truthfully.
Being a princess had always been and would always be lonely; such was the nature of the role. She could tell it would be no different with the human children – they were tentative and a little reverent around her. She had the feeling that they were too far separated by both race and title to grow close to them.
They continued on in silence the rest of the way until the palace came into view. Then there was a little collective gasp, and the king smiled in spite of himself. But it truly was impressive. It rose out of the green hills, watching the approaching children with distant splendor. Gold and silver workings caught the afternoon light and shimmered like mirages. The spires rose up starkly into the sky, ornate and yet sleek at the same time. Despite its vastness, it somehow seemed slender and elegant, much like its makers. They walked on for several minutes, but there was another gasp as the first tinges of red appeared in the sky and suddenly the palace seemed ethereal.
The first tinges of red. Sunset. Dusk. Útíradien and Eremiel exchanged an alarmed look, and then they both began to urge the children on faster. The older children understood and began to coax the little ones to run; picking them up if they were too worn out for the task. The king quickly erected a shield around them, and the race began. They flew across the hills as quickly as the children's legs could carry them, but Eremiel worried that they were not fast enough. Something huge and black streaked across the sky in the corner of Eremiel's eye, and she knew what it was. They were beginning to reach the outlying homes now, but the palace, still ahead of them, would be safer.
A Sluagh lunged down at a child, but the shield repelled it and it bounced away. The children shrieked with terror. Eremiel's father winced, and she realized it had drained some of the energy from the shield. Another Sluagh joined the fight with the same result. Eremiel spotted a third and fourth flitting in and out of the clouds. When they, too, attacked, the shield flickered and almost vanished. They were draining her father's magic far too quickly. But the palace gate was there, right there and they were so close. Just a little farther, a few steps. There were wards on the doors that would keep the Sluaghya from breaking in before the gates could be closed again. They just had to make it that far, and then they would be safe.
And then the shield had broken and the children were shrieking and the king was gasping for breath, but they were all still running. Eremiel clutched the boy protectively to her chest and sprinted the last few steps inside. Turning back, she pulled three more children inside and watched the rest running for cover. Her father now had one on his back and one in his arms but the Sluaghya were attacking them and he wouldn't make it unless he let them go. But he wouldn't, surely he wouldn't.
"Garzjla!" he cried, and it worked for a moment. The light bursting into the air gave him the time he needed to gather the children and break for the door. By the time they finished absorbing the magic, he already had a foot inside, and he and the children were safe. Several more were inside by now, and just three were struggling to reach the haven. One of them was a teenage boy, about seventeen, who had stayed behind to help the other two.
A Sluagh descended upon him, and he fell with a cry as it began to tear into his chest. Eremiel's hand found a knife, but she hesitated, remembering the way the first two had dodged the arrows on the night of Sanpharae's death. On a sudden inspiration, she acted magically at the boy, trying to muffle the sound of his cries. The Sluagh automatically tapped into the magic to absorb the energy, the nature of which confused it. And in its sudden distraction, she flung the knife. It hit the beast squarely in the side beneath its outstretched wing and it cried in agony, fluttering weakly of the boy, who jumped to his feet and ran with all his might through the gates. Then they were all through, and the guards pulled them closed unceremoniously as the Sluaghya attempted to attack. They were safe.
The injured had been tended to, and Eremiel was sent to watch over the children while Útíradien entered council with his advisors. The little boy whom she had carried found her and curled up against her side, crying. She picked him up, promised the other children she would be right back, and hurried to her room to fetch the toy rabbit, sewn from soft white cloth, that she had loved to play with as a little girl. He latched right onto it and whispered an endearing little "thank you" in her ear. When they fell asleep that night, he was still pressed close to her, clutching the rabbit in between them.
The next day, upon waking up and leading the other children to breakfast, one of her father's advisors, Ganelir, took her aside. She learned that her father had been persuaded to return for the rest of the humans. He had left with a small company as soon as it was light enough to travel safely. But they had returned just hours later, alone. It was too late, they said. The Sluaghya had attacked during the night, and all had perished. Some had taken their own lives rather than suffer at the hands of the beasts, and others had died the horrible deaths that the Sluaghya brought. The elves chose not to tell the children of their parents' passing, and Eremiel honored that wish. Just days later, the decision was made.
They would leave, all of them, by ship within the next week. Though Aloníria lay in the hills, the ocean was close, and the elves constantly kept their ships in good condition and ready to sail. All that would remain would be to gather supplies. But in that week, the Sluaghya grew more vicious, more intent on stealing their prey, perhaps because Aloníria now had the only ready crop of victims. Eremiel made sure to watch the children like a hawk, but other elves began to fall to the Sluaghya, caught accidentally outside at dusk or daring and disbelieving of the peril. By the time they left, there were few enough remaining to travel on one large ship.
And now they were at sea, and the Sluaghya had not attacked since they had reached the open waters where land was invisible. Eremiel guessed that they could not fly out far enough to reach them, and they could not roost in the daylight. On the ocean, they were safe.
Someone knocked low down on the door. It must have been Cyran, the little boy Eremiel had carried. He had latched on to her like no one else ever had, and he often came to her when he was lonely or scared. She was teaching him the ancient language, and he was learning quickly. He was teaching her how not to speak so formally in human tongues, which was fantastic for annoying her father. Not that Cyran knew that.
"Cyran," she called. "Is that you?"
She stood up and swiftly re-dressed and re-attached the hammock to its rings.
A little boy voice answered, "Yes, 'Rél. Can I come in?"
She opened the door and he walked in, the rabbit hugged to his chest. Eremiel picked him up and sat down with him on the hammock. "Of course you can. Is something wrong?"
"Will the Slu-ah find us when we get off the boat?" Cyran asked, his lower lip quivering.
Eremiel shook her head. "I don't think so, Cyran. But I'll be there, no matter what. I won't let anything hurt you."
"Okay," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.
Then he was calm, trusting in her promise. But Eremiel was on edge; her mind wouldn't let her relax. True, the Sluaghya might be gone forever, but what would they face next? She jumped from possibility to possibility, conjuring up horrible fates in her head, threats worse than the one that had driven them from their home. Anything could be on that land; anything at all. There could, she reminded herself, even be health and safety waiting ahead. It was no use worrying about what might be. Soon they would find themselves on dry land again, and everything would be different. But whatever happened, she would weather the storm; even learn to revel in it and praise the vitality it would one day bring. She would embrace her bloodline, and she and her people would step onto that land with their heads held high and no sign of surrender in their eyes.
So... That was chapter two, as you probably figured out by now. To anyone who read chapter one before, sorry for taking so long to post again. I blame three AP classes, all of which would like to kill me. I mean really, they're murderous. Anyway, Efrain, Arya, and Eragon will all be back soon, so don't worry about them. Fun fact: Koury Coving finished chapter three of In the Light of the Red Dawn at about the same time I finished this chapter. It's an LOTR fanfiction, so you should definitely go read and review. ~ Back to Dry Lightning: If convenient, leave a review. If inconvenient, leave all the same.
- Thanks,
Gael Drake