She walked slowly across the open space, her eyes riveted to the cottage. From far away it had looked pristine, straight out of her memories, but up close she could see the evident wear. The walls were covered by mold the color of weather-worn copper, running down the wood in dripping patterns. The entangled roots that made up the walls of the hut had grown thicker over the decades, squeezing and distorting the window-holes and doorframe. The slab of wood that had served as a door had popped out of the frame and was lying face down, a bridge over the sea of wild plants that had grown up around the cottage. The wooden lattices that covered the windows were bent, creating strange holes and new shapes. Vines had surged up from the garden, tangling around the wooden screens and filling the windows with walls of green.
Mellary stepped up onto the fallen door, feeling it shift beneath her. She walked across to rest her hand on the wood of the roots. They belonged to the massive trees that ringed the clearing. Emary had sung them out of the ground, encouraging the wood to move and tangle in ways that formed a snug shelter beneath.
The inside of the cabin was dim, thick shadows inside and bright sunlight outside obscuring the interior. Something deep in Mellary's mind stirred uneasily. Dark and ominous, this thing welling up from a part of her mind that she thought she had buried so long ago.
She hesitated in the doorway, then raised her hand and slowly pressed it through the opening. The air pushed back against her hand, turning thick like syrup, small sparks forming against her skin. The sparks ran in a line over her fingers, across her palm and down her wrist. She flexed her fingers in the clear air of the other side.
Emary had been an artist when it came to wards. The strong shields that ringed the clearing were to prevent anything other than an elf from stepping through. Living so far from civilization, it had been a necessary part of their lives. Many strange and dangerous predators lived in these woods. The ward across the door, however, was something else entirely. The carefully constructed shield repelled everyone who didn't share the maker's blood. Since Emary's family had died long ago, the ward effectively kept out everyone except Mellary and her mother.
Their security hinted at a deep-seated paranoia. Mellary hadn't understood it as a child. But as an adult, the reason why her mother had told her to run and hide inside the small cottage was clear.
Air like molasses pressed against her face. The ward hadn't been this thick when she was a child. Mellary's muscles strained as she pushed through, sparks clinging to her skin. Then the ward released her and she stumbled into the cottage. The sudden change in light left her blind, and she closed her eyes to allow them to adjust.
The cottage as she had left it danced in her memory, bright and shining. A single bed stood in one corner, wide enough for two people. A fireplace was set into the wall farthest from the door, a put still hung up above weathered logs just waiting for a spark. Light refracted from the beads wound into the lace-like window lattices and bouncing between the glass nick-knacks scattered around the cottage, bringing the noon sun inside. A heavy cast-iron crucible sat next to fireplace, the small annealing oven in which Emary had cured her works at the foot of the bed, where it could provide some heat on chilly nights. Chest stood pressed against the wall, holding clothes and glassmaking tools.
A flash of memory hit her. She was young again, tucked beneath thick blankets and watching through half-lidded eyes, sleep slowly settling over her, as Emary reached into the crucible with magic-coated hands to draw out a blob of glowing molten glass, her deft fingers shaping it before it had time to cool.
Mellary took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The dark wave inside of her crested, emotions slamming over her. Breath deserted her, leaving her gasping for air.
The inside of the cottage was wrecked. Wind had slammed through, scattering tattered sheets and linens. Vines had crept in through the windows and surged across the floor. The creepers had almost completely blocked the windows, the only light source small beams that had managed to wiggle through. The glass sculptures had been knocked from their places and lay shattered on the ground, turning the floor into a war zone of tripping vines and razor shards.
Gone. It was all gone. A thick, potent mix of grief, anger, and sadness swept through her. It was as if the destruction of her childhood home had shattered the dam. All the emotion that she had stopped feeling, that she had suppressed, moved through her in a powerful black wave. With everything in her, Mellary shoved it back, shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear it.
Red flickered in the corner of her eye. Desperate for anything to concentrate on, she turned too quickly, almost expecting to see… to see nothing. Her own reflection looked back at her out of the mirror. Mellary wasn't sure what she had been expecting to see, but the bright flash of hope had been so bright, so sharp, it was almost painful.
The mirror, a wide and jagged shard of glass, had hung behind the door for as far back as she could remember. Mellary had never been tall enough to see her own reflection, but she remembered her mothers. Her reflection was so different from Emary's face. She had some of the arched lines of the elves, though hers were more from harsh living than heritage. Her hair was almost unmanageable, not a flowing waterfall of fire as her mother's had been. Her heart aching, she turned away, then slowly turned back.
She had been so engrossed that she had missed the soft buzzing in the back of her eyes that meant Embrald was looking out her eyes. But now, so close that her breath misted against the glass, she could see the vibrant emerald green pooled around misshapen, oblong pupils. Embrald's influence, like spurts of new growth over fire-swept ground.
No wonder she had accidentally mistaken her reflection for her mother. Her gold-laced red curls were lighter, but the color was similar enough, when paired with the green eyes. Emary's eyes had been a softer shade, like spring-time, not the sharp and cutting green of gemstones. Enough, at a glance, to fool her memory-soaked mind. Mellary turned back to the room, taking another halting step in. The edge of the shock had dulled, allowing her to take a closer look.
The inside of the small cottage was in disarray. Decades of winds and storms had taken their toll. The glass figurines scattered around the room had been moved, some shattered, those by the windows worn and smudged by pounding rain. Vines had crept in through the windows, spreading out across the wooden floor and turning the smooth surface into a rolling sea. Light shimmered here and there from glass shards. Vines had begun to climb up the sparse furniture, though they shied away from her mother's glass-making equipment. If she had to guess, Mellary would suspect that it simply had too much magic in it. She picked her way through the carnage and opened the door of the crucible. A neat pile of sand and old shards sat at the bottom, waiting for an artist that would never come.
She rose, looking around. A shard of light pierced her eyes from the windows. Mellary made her way over, wincing as something crunched under her boot. She unsheathed her knife and used the blade to clear some of the vines from the window screen.
Delicate lace-like tendrils of wood had covered the opening, woven into an intricate pattern. Small faceted glass beads had been set into the junctions. When unhindered the beads caught the sunlight, throwing it into the small cottage and making it glow.
I know that pattern, Embrald said suddenly.
Yes, Mellary said simply. She closed her eyes and dropped into her mind, raising one of her shields. The structure that guarded her mind was an exact replica of the lattice. Fine threads, looking as fragile as glass and shifting with a myriad of colors wove together, punctured by black pits like dark satin. Mellary poked at one, feeling solid resistance. The dark areas weren't holes in the shield as they appeared, but were impenetrable areas that she had seeded with mental 'traps', pockets of power that would strike out at an attacker. The shield had taken her years to construct.
She let the mental ward melt away and opened her eyes, deliberately ignoring the black sea in her mind. But there was nothing she could do to stop it from surging against her shields.
The cabin matched her mood; it was rougher, darker than her memory. She didn't belong in the light, happy home that she remembered. It might have broken something in her to come back to that. She could feel that something trembling under the weight of the memories.
Mellary turned hastily towards the door, a sudden desire to leave flashing through her. She turned too quickly and an errant vine grabbed her foot. Mellary felt her balance tip, saw the glass-littered floor rushing towards her. She twisted violently, hands flying out for balance. One hand hit the ground hard. The other smacked against a clothing chest, knocking a small box off. The ornate box clattered to the ground, the rusted latch cracking as it hit. Something fast and green flew out and hit the floor with a dull clunk. Mellary's attention was stolen away by the whiplash of pain across her palm. Swearing through gritted teeth as she rolled over, she gripped the blood-slicked shard of glass sticking out of her palm. A deep breath, and she ripped it out with a shout. Ruby blood dripped down her wrist as she muttered the healing words, watching the skin flow closed. Using a loose piece of cloth from the rotted bedspread, she wiped away the blood.
Why so much glass? Embrald asked. Mellary surveyed the room as she stood, her gaze lingering on the beautifully twisted pieces that has survived.
Every elf has a hobby. My mother's was glassmaking.
Embrald was silent for a moment. Where did she get the sand?
For the Hardarac Desert. Someone brought her sacks of it when she ran out. The rough quartz sand of the desert was almost impossible to work with, unless one had the ability to magically heat it up far past the temperatures of a normal crucible.
And the colors? He asked as Mellary examined a piece made of five intertwined strands of glass, each a different vibrant color.
Salts, from the mountains. Those were harder to come by. The only way to get them was by trading with the dwarves. After the war, they were almost impossible to get. For a very special piece, her mother would pulls the sacks of dull, chalky dust out of the special cabinet and, as Mellary watched in fascination, carefully add delicate pinches.
Mellary looked down, remembering the object that had hit the floor. The chances of her actually finding anything among the twisted masses of vines was slim, but looking….
Her heart stuttered to a halt in her chest, leaving her gasping before raggedly beating on. The dull circle of green stone lying on the wooden floor seemed to taunt her. Mellary reached down and picked it up, almost convinced that her fingers were going to pass straight through it, like a teasing mirage. But the calloused pads of her fingers gripped the green stone and white metal easily, lifting it off the floor.
She rolled the ring around in her palm, feeling the slight weight. The emotional wave she had been staving off crashed over her with blinding force that threatened to drive her to her knees. Mellary threw a hasty shield across the bond, locking the storm in her mind so it didn't bleed down.
Mellary?
My mother's ring. Two entwined vines, one carved from moss-green stone, the second forged from a chunk of raw white metal, the impurities evident in small multicolor streaks through the metal. My father made it for her. Craftsman magic was his specialty. I think he came to Du Weldenvarden to observe the elves in their work, since humans can't do anything like it. Since it was a peaceful time before they closed the borders, the elves allowed it. She always wore it. On the fourth finger of her right hand. Not where the humans wore their rings of commitment, but still as a statement.
Emary had always worn it, except when she was going out to meet other elves or was working with the glass. The others wouldn't say anything, would never cross that social line, but the censure was still there, lurking below the surface, especially in the years during and after the war.
The day she had been killed, she had slid the ring off her finger and put it in the small carved box. Then, as always, she had closed the lid and kissed the top before putting it away.
Mellary took a shuddering breath and wiped away the tears still lingering on her face. She slid the ring onto her finger. It was loose on the fourth finger, threatening to slide off, but fit perfectly around the biggest finger on her right hand. The weight felt good, comforting.
And just like that, a ray of sun cut through the darkness in her mind. Her mother had loved her unconditionally. Mellary had known that, but the years had dulled the memory. Never had Emary blamed her for causing them to live so far away from the other elves, for the looks and whispers she had to have endured. Her mother had given all that up, to raise her half-blood daughter in a home filled with light and laughter and love.
Embrald's presence burned in her mind, bright and comforting.
She wasn't alone anymore.
Mellary had been alone for so long, it had become ingrained. Most days, it hadn't bothered her, but some days… perhaps that had been why she had been so quick to follow that pull, so quick to let a tiny green hatchling into her mind.
The shadows in the cottage seemed less substantial. Taking a final look around, Mellary walked out. She hesitated just over the threshold, then lifted up the big door and slotted it back into place before using magic to meld the door into the tree roots, sealing the small cottage. She made her way back to Embrald, crossing the ward. He stretched his neck forward and she threw her arms around him, hugging the dragon tight. So much to think about. So much to process. Too much at the moment.
She climbed into place and let the thrill of flying wipe away the rest of the darkness.
The next day Mellary wore her mother's ring on her finger. When she slid off of Embrald's back after practice, one hand flashing out for balance, she saw Oromis's eyes slide to the band and away. The aging elf said nothing then. As she went to leave that afternoon, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and offered her the first of the sky-blue scrolls.