The Coming Storm
Date: 2011-03-05 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction
Description: Librarian Note: Alternate/new cover edition for ASIN# B004WLOBG2. Elon of Aerilann, Elven advisor to the High King of Men, helped negotiate the treaty between Elves, Dwarves and men. He suddenly finds that fragile truce threatened from without by an unknown enemy and from within by old hatreds and prejudice. With the aid of his true-friend Colath, the wizard Jareth, and the Elven archer Jalila, he searches for the source of the threat. Ailith, the Heir to Riverford, fights her own silent battle. Something's wrong, her father has changed. Her quest to discover what's changed puts her life and v

Not Magic Enough

(The Coming Storm series)

By

Valerie Douglas

Published by the author as a member of the

Alexandria Publishing Group

Not Magic Enough Copyright © 2010 Valerie Douglas

Cover art by Melissa C. Krauss, Made by Mel http://www.thedvdream.com/

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from author.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Discover other titles by Valerie Douglas

Fantasy

The Coming Storm

A Convocation of Kings

Setting Boundaries

Heart of the Gods

Servant of the Gods

Romance

Dirty Politics

Directors Cut

Irish Fling

Two Up

The Last Resort

Hand drawn map of the Kingdoms created by Jareth of Doncerric for the purpose of setting boundaries

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Setting Boundaries

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About the author

Chapter One

The pounding on the heavy wood of the doors of the homestead sounded loudly above the shriek and howl of the storm raging outside. Pulling on her threadbare robe - only half-awake - Delae ran across the cold stone floors in her bare feet to answer it, rubbing her eyes wearily. Doubtless, her aged cook and houseman had been roused, too, by the pounding, and were on their way from their quarters at the back of the homestead - but she was the closer of them. She hated to ask Petra or Hallis to sit by the door of a night, as many landowners did - any more than she set a guard by the gates as many others did. They weren’t so far from the seat of the lesser Kingdom of Riverford that they had much to fear behind stout walls.

Who would be mad enough to be out in such a storm as this? She wondered. It was early in the night, true, but it was still insanity to be caught so far from shelter.

Lifting the bar, she set it aside and released the latch.

The door opened on a blast of wet snow and wind that struck her like a blow - to reveal a stranger standing there, looking windblown, frozen, battered and desperate. She caught him as he almost fell in the door - a young, plain-looking man - a farmer or tradesman, a traveler of some sort not used to the vagaries of the weather at the edges of the Kingdoms. His ragged brown hair was drenched, his clothing soaked, his skin white and his lips nearly blue from the cold.

“Help,” he whispered as he staggered into the relative warmth of the great room.

The fire in the fireplace that dominated the whole of one wall was banked to coals but it still heated the room beyond the chill of the weather outside.

He was clearly injured, with blood covering one side of his face.

“My family,” he croaked, weakly, “the wagon, it overturned. We were on our way home from the birthing…”

“Hush, hush,” Delae said, gently, reassuringly, as she took his weight on her shoulders and guided him to the padded bench by the fire. “What’s your name?”

“Marlan. Lady, you have to help them…!”

“Of course I do,” she said, kindly, although it was no more than her duty as landowner, but also because people needed aid. “We’ll help them, I promised. What happened, Marlan? Where are they?”

“We were coming from Raven’s Nest, heading south for the Heartlands. My sister Jessa had her baby, we were coming home,” Marlan said. His next words were bitter and angry. “Pa thought we could make it to Riverford before the storm hit. I kept telling him no, we should stop at the last village but you can’t tell him anything. So we pressed on.”

As he spoke, Petra and Hallis rushed in. With a shake of her head, Delae indicated they shouldn’t speak.

There was no need, at the young man’s words both turned to rush back down the hall to do what was needed, Petra to get the kitchens going and Hallis to gather up blankets.

“I told him we needed to stop, hunker down to wait out the storm but he wouldn’t,” Marlan said. From the way he spoke, it had the sound of an old complaint, much voiced and now tragically vindicated. “The wagon overturned.”

“Where?” Delae asked. “On the road?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, respectfully, as Hallis returned to drape a blanket over his shoulders.

“Petra is making soup, my lady, there will be food soon,” Hallis said, his heart aching for his poor mistress as he bent stiffly to stir up the fire, wrestling another log into place. Tall and spare - his gray hair sparse - Hallis’s hands were knotted with age, bent and twisted.

Hallis looked at his mistress kneeling by the young man. She was such a pretty young woman with a kind, gentle face and a good heart, as graceful as the dancer she’d been in her youth. Tightly curled hair glowed red and gold in the light of the coals, her dark blue eyes were focused only on the young man.

In truth, most landowners would already have put him and Petra to work as drudges in the kitchens or as lesser house staff by now and there were a good many that would’ve put them out to beg on the streets. Neither of them could move fast any more.

Not Delae though. For kindness mostly but also for good reason as there simply was no money to hire better - her good for nothing husband took every penny she couldn’t hide. Still, she never ordered, instead always asked and never complained of her lot in life. It wasn’t in her to do it.

A sharp petulant voice came from the door to the west wing of the house startling everyone.

“What’s going on, what’s all that racket? Can’t a body get some sleep of a night? Bad enough with this storm but then folk banging around…”

Closing her eyes, Delae willed patience as she had a thousand times before.

“It’s nothing, Cana. Travelers have broken down in the storm,” she said to her husband’s mother. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Then you must send aid,” the woman said, sharply - as if Delae were witless.

“This I know,” Delae said. “And I will. Go back to bed, Cana, I’ll take care of it.”

Despair and frustration weighed on her, battered at her soul. It was at rare times such as this that Delae wished she had a husband in truth, instead of only in name. This would’ve been his duty had he been there, although she would have gone with him to brave the storm and give aid. Instead it fell to her. All of it.

She took a breath - willed strength and patience. These folk needed her. There was no one else and there was something - some satisfaction - to be found in the knowledge that she could help.

“Hmmmph,” Cana said and slammed the door shut behind her.

At least Kolan, her husband’s father, hadn’t come, too, Delae thought, which was one blessing - his joints bothered him too much on these days.

Letting out the breath she’d taken, with a wince at the door slam, Delae turned to Hallis.

“Go fetch Dan, Morlis and Tad for me would you please, Hallis? Tell Morlis we’ll need our hay cart, two of the draft horses and Besra. Then you and Petra get the rooms in the east wing ready.”

Those rooms were usually reserved for rare visitors to the homestead - or for travelers such as these caught out in the storm. In this isolated part of the Kingdoms the smallholders used them most when they came in during the harsh days of winter, now fast upon them.

“Yes, Delae,” Hallis said and hurried off as best he could with his stiff joints and aching bones, as Petra came down the hall toward him.

Their fingers - his and Petra’s - touched for just a moment with love and understanding and then Hallis hobbled down through the west wing of the quarters toward those of the south wing. It would take longer but he was too old to fight the winds of the storm by cutting across the square.

Petra came to sit by the boy, a mug of hot herbal tea laced with wine in one gnarled hand. She gave a nod to Delae.

“Help will be on its way shortly,” Delae said, laying a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder.

As she hurried away to her rooms, she knew she wouldn’t tell him it would be she who would go. She, her smith, her wrangler and the addled but strong young man who assisted Petra in the kitchen.

That was all there were here save for the women and children of the homestead. All the smallholders were sheltering from the storm in the safety of their cottages and too far away to aid her.

It would have to be enough - it would have to do. Somehow.

Casting aside the threadbare robe and the thin linen nightdress she wore, Delae quickly drew on her working clothes - simple but heavy men’s winter trews, her heaviest tunic, layering over it a sweater Petra had knitted for her and thick woolen socks before she stamped her feet into her working boots. She threw her sturdiest cloak over all of it. A woolen scarf covered her abundant hair. She wrapped the scarf around her throat - despite the itch of the wool - before gathering up her sheepskin gloves.

She stopped to gather a jug of fortified wine from the storeroom, pausing in the kitchen to fetch a piece of warmed iron from the fire, and letting it drop it into the jug of wine with a hiss, before she pounded the cork stopper back in place.

By the time she reached the great room, the men were waiting.

Dan was huge and burly - heavily muscled in the chest, arms and shoulders from his hours at the forge and capable enough there. Tall and gangly, Morlis was a wonder with horses and a godsend to her. Poor Tad just looked at her vacantly, his huge hands dangling, his moon face waiting to be wreathed in a smile…or a look of confusion. But he was strong and he would do as he was told. For all that he was short-changed on wits, he more than made up for it in other ways.

She patted his cheek lightly, fondly - the smile broke out, big and broad, heartening her.

“I’ve the horses and wagon waiting outside,” Morlis said.

She nodded. “Tad, will you take the spare blankets and the jug to the cart please? We’re going for a ride. Dan, go open the hayloft, quickly please. If their wagon has overturned - they’ll be cold, possibly injured. We’ll need hay in the cart for warmth.”

Obediently, Tad gathered up the things and trotted out to the cart as Dan ran to the stables - Morlis on his heels to drive the little wagon there.

With a glance back at the warm building that had been her home for the last ten years or so, Delae went out into the storm.

It was an early winter storm and all the more fierce because of it - driven by the warm winds from the south and the cold winds sweeping down out of the mountains to the east and north. It was bitterly cold and damp, hurling snow before it that wouldn’t stick but would turn the roads muddy, slushy and thick.

A rumble of thunder growled above the other sounds of the storm. Thunder snow… uncommon but less so at this time of year. If this were any sign, it would be a long and hard winter.

Faithful Besra - her horse - tried to turn her back to the wind, her winter coat thick, yet still she shivered as Delae mounted.

Delae could sympathize as she turned the horse’s head toward where Dan forked hay into the cart. The cold seemed to find every gap in the layers that covered her.

“Enough, let’s go,” she shouted and he nodded, pulling the upper doors closed behind him, emerging seconds later at the door below with torches he’d lit at his forge.

He handed one up to her before mounting his own horse.

The gates were unbarred as they almost always were - save for the rare goblin raids this far to the south and west, they didn’t need to be. Far from the borderlands and in a Kingdom where the King kept faith with his subjects by keeping the roads safe for those who lived within his borders, they had little to fear.

Except the storm.

The wind struck with vicious force the moment they left the security of the walls, rattling the little wagon and nearly blowing Delae from her horse.

Still there was no help for it, as landowner here it was her responsibility to render aid - regardless of circumstances.

Putting her head down, Delae drew her cloak more tightly around her throat.

In the wind of the storm, the torches and lanterns on the cart guttered and flickered. Delae could barely hang onto hers - but she did, switching it from hand to hand to give each cold aching wrist and arm relief. Both were strained and sore by the time they finally reached the road.

With no sign of the passage of a wagon south, they turned north and soon enough found the stranded travelers, huddled together for warmth in the shelter of the overturned wagon. One horse was down, tangled in its traces, still kicking weakly as the other fought to stay upright with his fellow fallen beside him.

Delae’s heart sank at the sight.

The wagon was huge, a massive farm wagon, far larger than she’d expected, put to use no doubt for the family visit to distant relatives, the last such chance to do so before the snows closed the pass to Raven’s Nest. As it no doubt would be now.

It was easy enough to see what had happened. As the mud had grown thicker it had bogged the wheels of the wagon until they’d hit a low wallow. There the wheels on one side had caught completely, pulling them off the road. The wagon had gone over in a slow but inevitable roll onto its side. Now one side of the wagon was mired in the mud - making it far more difficult to raise.

There had to be more than a dozen people there, a few men but mostly women and children, all shivering in the cold. One of the men Marlan’s father? was also injured.

It was clear the cart would never hold all of them. They would have to right the wagon.

One of the other men cried out to her in relief as he staggered to his feet.

“Thank God you’ve come!” he said as she dismounted.

“How many are injured?” she shouted over the wind. “And how badly?”

“Forman is the worst,” the man responded. “He struck his head. One of the children has a broken arm. The rest are only bruises.”

That was a relief. Their thick clothes and hay had likely softened the fall, preventing more injuries.

“Get Forman and the child in the cart and as many of the other children as you can. There are blankets there. Try to get them warm,” she said, as she fought the wind and mud to have a look at the wagon. “Dan, I need you. Morlis, help them. Tad, keep the horses still.”

She slogged through the frozen mud.

At least the axle hadn’t broken. That had been her worst fear, as it would have made everything much harder. Otherwise, they would’ve had to take them back in stages with the fragile cart - each trip risking another accident such as this one while those remaining waited in the freezing cold.

If they could even get the wagon turned over and that was very doubtful.

The storm raged around them as Delae held her torch high examining the situation.

“If we cut the traces of the fallen horse,” Dan said, grimly, “we’ll lose pull.”

With a sigh, Delae nodded. That had been her assessment as well.

They’d never get the wagon out and there would be nothing to secure the draft horses to the wagon then. One horse couldn’t pull it alone but perhaps they could rig something.

Either way it meant the death of the horse on the ground. Without untangling it they’d never get the wagon righted and if they tried it would likely break one of the horse’s legs, if not worse. The way it thrashed she wouldn’t risk the life of whoever she asked to unbuckle it. Her heart grieved for the poor animal. She couldn’t ask Morlis to do it nor have the children watch.

Which left her. She sighed.

If they could even get the wagon righted with what they had.

They had to try.

Coming around the wagon, she eyed the situation, working out what needed to be done first.

Morlis had gotten the two injured and all of the younger children into the cart.

With a nod, she turned to the man she’d spoken to first.

“Your name?”

Tugging his forelock in respect, he said, “Pell, Lady.”

“Pell. Who among the women is best with the children?”

“Yana,” the man said and a young woman turned at the sound of her name, holding her thin cloak closed around her head with one hand.

“Morlis,” Delae said, “Give everyone on the cart a swallow of the wine to warm them and then leave it with those who remain to keep them warm. Leave the draft horses here. Take Yana up with you - get her, the children and the injured back to the homestead. Have Petra put them in the east wing rooms. If we aren’t back by daylight, return then.”

She wouldn’t risk him coming back alone in this weather. If they didn’t get the wagon righted and on its way whoever survived the storm this night would get a ride back to the homestead in the morning. Already the cold was numbing Delae’s fingers and toes. Young Yana shivered badly.

The man nodded.

“Everyone else,” Delae said, “get back among the trees. We’re going to try to right the wagon.”

The little cart with its passengers trundled off, taking with it the dim light cast by its lanterns.

The remaining women and the older children took what little shelter they could beneath the trees. The remaining two men held the torches.

Delae turned back to the overturned wagon.

Dan and Pell waited, Tad behind them looking confused, Pell’s face already pale and set, knowing what needed to be done.

Clearly, she couldn’t ask it of him, either, and she would much prefer to do the deed herself, so it would be done as quickly as well and as painlessly as possible.

“Dan, Pell,” she said, “secure the draft horses to the rails of the wagon so they can pull as we lift but wait until I signal I’m ready. Tad, help them by holding the horses.”

She went to her knees beside the head of the thrashing chestnut horse, wary of its kicking forelegs; its tossing head hampered by the tangled traces and laid her hand on its cheek, looking into the one eye she could see. The white there clearly showed its fear. For a moment it stilled, distracted by her touch. Her heart went out to it as she stroked its rough hide and she drew her belt knife.

That was how Dorovan first saw her, kneeling in the mud by the overturned wagon. To his Elven-sight her brilliant hair was a bright splash of red against the light dusting of snow on the ground as she bent her head. Brightness sparkled on her cheeks as she touched the frightened, tangled horse gently.

Tears. Something his folk did not know.

Nearby three men secured draft horses to the upraised side of the wagon while a group of men, women and a young boy stood beneath the dubious shelter of the trees.

It wasn’t his business; it was a thing of men. He knew he should pass by, unseen in the darkness, his Elven-sight rendering everything to him as clear as day- unlike that of the men and women here.

He was cold as well - chilled to the bone - tired, heartsick and far from home.

It had been a long journey from Lothliann in the north, where he’d gone to render aid against the Borderlands creatures, through the Rift and the lands Men called Raven’s Nest. They’d lost one of their Hunters to the goblins and his people grieved the loss along with Melis’s soul-bond.

As he himself did, his heart heavy. Even without a soul-bond of his own, through the empathy his people shared he knew a fraction of what it was to suffer such a loss. His heart ached for Melis. She would go on to the Summerlands soon, he knew. And then his people would lose not one, but two.

To his vision it was clear the small party was unlikely to right the heavy wagon, not with what they had to work with, but it was also quite clear they would try. There was nothing else for it.

It was also clear what the woman on the ground was about to do, however much she clearly dreaded it and however necessary it was… If he didn’t intervene. With the storm it was also likely they would all freeze and die out here if they didn’t succeed.

Dorovan had had enough of death.

Taking a breath, Delae set the blade to the horse’s throat. She didn’t think she could successfully put it through the eye and thus into the brain - nor could she bear to do so, but she could cut its throat if she was quick. The thought of it made her want to weep, but she steeled herself to do what must be done.

A strong, long-fingered hand settled over her own, stilling it.

Startled, she turned her head to look.

Shock and amazement at who stood there held her rooted to the spot.

Not who though, as much as what.

She wasn’t certain in that moment or any moment afterward which held her more immobile - that an Elf had appeared at her side - that he was an Elf, that he was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen, as most Elves were, or the seemingly bottomless depth of the kindness in his silvery gray eyes. Or the grief and sorrow hidden in the depths - moving like shadows in the flickering light of the torch.

His features were perfect, strong - his smooth skin was reddened a little with the cold beneath the hood of his cloak, his long straight hair streamed loose in the wind.

It was as if she was held spellbound and yet she knew she wasn’t. Elven magic didn’t work that way.

Rarely did her folk see Elves here in the outlands and never one alone given the danger from her own kind - although she certainly knew of that aloof and beautiful race. Everyone did - as they knew of the Dwarves who dwelled deep in the earth in their Caverns.

What was he doing out in this storm so far from an Enclave? There was none close that she knew of and the storm would slow even his Elven-bred horse, standing patiently nearby. She hadn’t even heard its approach.

Empathic as he was, beneath the thick scarf covering her bright hair, Dorovan could see a woman of warmth and of spirit, of infinite tenderness, her blue eyes filled with both grief at what she was about to do, the determination and duty that was required to do it and wonder to see him there beside her. His kind and hers rarely interacted.

“Do not,” he said, gently. “I can hold him still, if you can but unbuckle the harness.”

Dorovan often worked with the horses in Talaena Enclave and the horses of men were much less headstrong than those, so keeping the animal still was only a matter of empathy with it - of sinking his awareness into that of the animal trembling beneath his hands.

It was on Delae for a moment to ask if he was certain, but he was Elf - of course he was. If he said it, he was. There was that about Elves that they didn’t lie - it going so against their Honor.

Then he laid his strong, long-fingered hands on the horse, one on the horse’s strong neck, the other covering its eye, murmuring soft words as he did and it stilled completely.

“Dan, Pell, Tad, help me,” she said, softly, not wanting to disturb the Elf’s concentration.

Both seemed as dumbstruck by the presence of the Elf as she’d been - staring at him in amazement.

“Dan, Pell,” she called, more sharply, before tugging her gloves from her nearly frozen fingers to work the straps free of the buckles. “Tad.”

That broke their suspension and they rushed to help her, Tad goggling owlishly at the Elf.

Still it took all of Dan and Tad’s muscle to lift and Delae’s and Pell’s efforts to get the harness unfastened from beneath the horse. Then it was free and she turned to the Elf.

As lightly as a feather, the woman touched Dorovan on the shoulder, letting him know he could release his control of the horse.

It surprised him she would know his people didn’t like to be touched by anyone other than other Elves, but even that brief touch told him much about her - including the knowledge that she possessed an empathy he’d thought uncommon among the people of men. Still, he couldn’t help but be grateful for it and for her consideration.

He looked up into her blue eyes and nodded, stepping back carefully, drawing her back with him with a touch to her shoulder as the horse thrashed to its feet.

Quickly he reached out to grasp the frightened animal by its halter.

“Pell,” Delae called. “Come help us get the horse harnessed. Have one of the women hold it.”

The other man nodded while Dan took the reins of the other horses.

Delae looked at the Elf hesitantly. “I can’t ask you for more than you’ve done…”

With a grave nod, Dorovan said, “But I can offer it.”

The gratitude in her eyes was thanks enough.

“I’m Delae,” she offered.

“Dorovan,” he said.

She smiled, her blue eyes warming, turning her beautiful.

Borrowing the traces from wagon, he set them on his own Charis, who shook himself at the feel of the leather on him before settling. The Elven-bred stallion knew his duty here; it didn’t need to be said. Dorovan attached the traces to the sturdiest rails on the side of the wagon. Before they could move it, they must first right it.

Even so, it wouldn’t be an easy task. It would take all of his strength and more to achieve it.

“Do you want to do this?” Delae asked.

He shook his head. “They are your people.”

Relieved, Delae turned briskly to the others.

This just might be possible.

“Dan,” she called, “get the horses moving forward, slow and steady. Pull them back as soon as the wagon starts to break free of the mud, as soon as it starts to go. Pell, Tad, I’ll need you with myself and Dorovan.”

The four of them bent to the wagon, dug their fingers into the thick mud to find the edge of the wagon bed. She only hoped the rails above would hold as the Elven-bred pulled against them.

Her gaze turned to the Elf beside her.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise Dorovan to find Delae crouched down beside him and them in the mud to lend what strength she had to lifting the massive wagon. He could only admire her – one who wouldn’t spare herself.

“Now,” she shouted and the man Dan called to the draft horses, shaking the reins to get them pulling.

Charis needed no instruction, throwing his great weight against the traces.

At the side of the wagon, Delae, Dorovan, Tad and Pell heaved.

There was a pause and then they felt it begin to move, to shift. With a wet, sucking sound, it pulled free.

All of them leaped back as Delae shouted, “Stop!”

The wagon tilted free of the mud, paused for a moment teetering on its side and then it fell back to all four wheels with a crash, a rail broken, a little the worse for wear, but whole enough to get the remainder of the travelers back to the homestead.

Delae shivered with the cold and turned to Dorovan.

“Our thanks,” she said, softly. “I can offer you hospitality, shelter and food for your help, if nothing else, but also as my duty as landowner. It won’t be Elven fare, but it will be hot and there’ll be a warm bed.”

It was the least she could do.

For a moment Dorovan hesitated - despite the wind cutting through his clothing, the cold, and his heaviness of spirit. It was a long way yet to Talaena, though, and the respite from the storm would be more than welcome.

“I can guarantee you privacy and peace,” she said, very gently, reaching out to touch his hand with just her fingertips, no more. “No one should be out in a storm such as this, Dorovan. The food will be plain but good and warm. There will be a hot bath, a bed for you and a stall for your horse with plenty of oats.”

The gesture touched him. Her blue eyes were calm, steady. The offer was a kind and honest one.

It was no more or less than any Elven Enclave would offer and he was far from home. In gratitude, Dorovan inclined his head.

Chapter Two

It was late into the night by the time they reached the homestead but torches now burned at the entrance to the courtyard and in every holder but those on the west side of the quadrangle - welcoming beacons in the thickening storm. Delae was relieved to see them, even more to feel the thick walls of the quadrangle cut the fierce and bitter winds so she didn’t have to hold on just to stay on Besra’s back.

Such as it was, it was home.

Morlis hurried out to greet them with Petra and Hallis on his heels.

All three paused to see the Elf in their midst but a stern look and a sharp, “Oats for Dorovan’s horse, Morlis, please. How fare our guests - Petra, Hallis?” broke their hesitation.

With a glance askance at Dorovan, Morlis hurried to help untack the horses.

Charis followed at the man’s heels happily enough at the promise of oats, judging by the flick of his ears.

“They do well enough, lady,” Petra said, with curious glances at the strange figure in their midst, “the man is recovering his senses but I’ve only allowed him watered wine with a care for his head. The little one’s arm is set. There’s food in the kitchen.”

“Will you help the others to their quarters?” Delae said. “Hallis, will you get the water heated for baths?”

“Already done, Delae,” he said. “And the fire is stirred up in all the hearths.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Wonderful. Would you go then and prepare the guest room in the main hall for Dorovan, please?”

Bobbing his head – startled at the request – he hurried away.

Dorovan was grateful, too, to be out of the blowing wind and even more so when he stepped into the warmth of the great room in Delae’s wake. The thought of a bath was sheer delight. He would do much to feel clean.

It was all a surprise to him, to find such hospitality here among men - kindness and warmth among a people not much known for it.

A fire burned in the huge hearth, while a single brazier of candles cast flickering light over the threadbare carpets and well-worn benches around the fire. Fresh rushes had been scattered over the floor. A plain but serviceable tapestry loom occupied another wall. It was a simple room, but clean and well-tended.

“Have a seat by the fire, Dorovan,” Delae said softly, “leave your wet cloak on the stand beside it to dry. I’ll only be a minute.”

She was already doing so herself, drawing the wet heavy scarf away from her hair. The color of flame, it was brilliant amidst the dull colors of the room.

He followed suit as she stripped away layer after layer until she was dressed only in a simple tunic and trews such as the men among her folk wore - her bare feet startlingly white and appearing oddly vulnerable on the well-scrubbed wooden floors as she padded quietly away.

There is little of decoration here, he noted, warming his hands by the fire.

Herbs grew in small pots in the high narrow windows that faced south, to gain the most sun. They smelled fresh and were brilliantly green against the shutters.

A tapestry hung on one wall, the stitches small and neat, depicting a little vale filled with little white wildflowers, the ones men called fairy rings, while another tapestry waited in the loom.

It was beautiful work, lovingly and patiently done.

Touching it, he knew instantly who had stitched it - who had created such beauty and allowed himself a smile here where no one could see. It was like her - a touch of brightness in the gloom of winter in the outerlands.

He sensed her presence coming down the hall and turned.

“Your room is ready,” she said, “and a bath awaits.”

Delae was grateful Dorovan couldn’t know she’d hauled the great copper bath there with Hallis’s aid and filled it, not being able to bring herself to ask Hallis to do it. She’d set him instead to filling her own bath, knowing it would be nearly tepid by the time he finished. The buckets were heavy. It was her duty to see to her guest anyway.

The room she showed Dorovan to was clean, as plain and unadorned as the rest. The ticking in the mattress was hay, but covered in thick wool and then in linen sheets so well used they were supple, clean and smelling lightly of lavender. A thick comforter topped it, offering warmth.

Steam rose from the waters of the bath where it sat close to the fire, and from a small kettle of stew set in the coals within the small hearth.

“Be welcome to my home, Dorovan,” Delae said, gently. “If you need anything, you have only to call. Else, no one here will bother you.”

He looked at her and inclined his head. “My thanks, Lady Delae,” giving her honor and title such as men did, not his own folk.

A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she sighed ruefully. “I am no Lady, Dorovan - although the folk here call me so, and certainly not to you. Delae is enough. And the thanks are to you for your aid. Well I know - we wouldn’t have succeeded without you.”

It pained him - the certain knowledge in her blue eyes, shadowing them as she closed the door behind her.

She’d known she was likely to die there and yet she’d stayed, saving those she could with no sure chance at saving herself amidst the fury of the storm, yet still she would’ve tried and kept trying despite the odds. Here in this woman was one of the race of man who understood Honor as his own folk did.

For a moment he simply stood there, looking at the door through which she’d passed.

It felt good to bathe and then to take up the bowl of stew, a pleasant change from dry travel bread.

As she’d said, the food was simple but good - there was fresh bread beneath a cloth on the tray by the fire. It was all very welcome.

She’d also put herbs and lavender in the bath to sweeten the water, and oil to soothe the skin. With a grateful sigh, he stripped and sank into the heated waters - letting his head fall back against the smoothed oak of the tub, his eyes closing. He hadn’t thought to find anything like to this before he reached his Enclave.

For a time he drifted in thought, the memory of the days past returning to haunt him.

He ached for the one they’d lost - for Melis and her pain at the loss of her soul-bond - he who’d been half her soul.

If Dorovan had had his own soul-bond she would’ve been there to offer comfort and to be comforted in turn but that balm to his soul hadn’t yet been afforded him.

There was time yet and he was neither the oldest not to have found a soul-bond yet by far, nor a true-friend bond either - he’d had alliances, as he must to preserve the bloodlines and for the comfort they offered. Elon of Aerilann had gone far longer, although he had Colath for true-friend, at least. Some solace against the isolation.

Still, Dorovan longed for a bond - any bond - for the comfort it would’ve offered to his grief at the loss of one who’d been a friend, if not a true-friend.

It was his own fault - he was so far from others of his kind who would’ve offered solace; he was  rare thing, a solitary elf, restless and yearning…though, for what he didn’t know.

Once more he saw Calon fall, the goblin’s spear taking him from the saddle even as Dorovan himself had turned his bow upon it. His desperate race to reach Calon was nearly a match to Melis’. He could still hear her cry of grief as Calon fell…

He shook his head to clear it. Restless - that cry of agony still ringing in his head - he dressed in clean clothes from his pack.

The room was too small, too confining. It wasn’t for Elves to be held within stone, yet the storm outside raged ever more fiercely, as he found as he returned to the great room to look out through the shutters there. Even if he left the warmth here – took Charis out into the storm – it would be a day or longer before they would reach Talaena and there would be the storm to add to the difficulty. Even his innate magic would be hard put against it, not to mention the risk of injury to both himself and Charis. It was foolish to consider it.

Still, grief and sorrow moved in him.

Delae, too, found sleep far away - her thoughts caught up with worry, with calculation and cost. The storm looked not to abate for days and the food the refugees would eat would deplete their stores badly. Once the storm broke she would have to send someone to Riverford to purchase more against need - there would be more storms yet to come in what promised to be a very long, very harsh winter.

And if this was a harbinger of what was to come? If they were caught short, folk would starve. They were her responsibility. And yet coin was short.

Her cares ate at her. They weighed on her as she tried to find the balance between current need and future need.

For all her weariness, she knew she would get no sleep this night so long as she fretted.

It seemed a heaviness to the spirit hung in the air.

In only her threadbare robe and linen nightdress she wandered out to the great room, thinking of the tapestry that awaited her there and the distraction it would offer.

And was surprised to find herself not alone - Dorovan stood at the shutters looking out onto the howling winds of the storm-tossed night.

As it had in that first moment when he had crouched beside her, his beauty caught at her. More so now.

Dressed simply in an Elven-silk tunic and loose drawstring trews, it was clear he was as lovely in body as he was in face.

Lost in thought, completely unaware of her presence, there was something in his stance - his solitude, a slump of those broad shoulders, the slight bow of his head – that spoke of some greater sorrow than her own. She understood what it was to be alone with no one for comfort. When the grippe had come, laying waste to whole villages, it had taken her parents and so many others with as it passed, leaving no solace behind it.

What she couldn’t have, she would give.

Small slender fingers touched the back of Dorovan’s hand, so much in the way of his people that the simple gesture alone eased him, gave him a small measure of peace. It softened his surprise as he looked down to find Delae beside him, her vibrant hair atumble, her blue eyes compassionate, her expression gently questioning.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She shook her head, all unknowing of what she’d done.

“No thanks needed. Should I ask?”

That courtesy was a surprise as well, giving him the room to withdraw if he so chose. He didn’t.

“I was with a party of Hunters - we lost one among us.”

His heart twinged at the memory.

To his surprise, he found himself taking the comfort she offered, his fingers threading between hers.

The pain was piercing, Delae could see it.

In comparison to the lands of men, those of the Elves were few and their numbers equally so as they weren’t as fertile. She also knew enough to know of the empathy they shared. To lose someone who shared that same kind of sense, who he would’ve known so well…

“Oh, Dorovan,” she said, heartfelt, “I’m so sorry. This then is little enough comfort to give.”

There was a shared grief in her eyes - sympathy and sorrow at his pain - at his loss.

“It is enough,” he said. And, surprisingly, it was. To find it here even more so.  “Like enough to what my own folk would give to remind me that sorrows can be shared.”

And eased. Something her very presence gave him a kind of solace. He felt less alone - not so far from home with her there - although she wasn’t Elf. He found it didn’t matter so much. Yet still, he wasn’t alone because she was also awake at such a dark hour.

“Which brings me to ask what you do so late? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Delae waved it away as if carelessly, not wanting to make much of it. “I don’t sleep well or often, I just hadn’t expected to find another awake on my late night ramblings.”

On many nights she walked or paced these same halls by herself, so often she could walk them blindfolded.

For all the lightness of her tone, Dorovan could sense the weight that lay on her heart that she put aside in the face of his.

“Sorrows can be shared, Delae,” he repeated.

Looking up into his eyes, his beautiful face was as impassive as all those of his race, in those eyes Delae could see compassion, could sense it in him.

Still.

A part of her ached - yearned for comfort and yet she dared not. Once that wall came down… She quailed, flinched away in fear at the thought, afraid the weight of her responsibilities would crush her if she looked at them too closely.

“You have enough of your own sorrow,” she said, gently, “You don’t need mine as well. I’m long used to it.”

“You seem very…alone,” he said.

She did. Even in the midst of her own people she’d seemed solitary, as if there were a barrier he couldn’t see between her and them.

His perception pierced her.

At his words Delae had to turn away, from the sympathy but above all from the kindness in his voice. It touched her to her core. Kindness would undo her, who had known anything but weight and responsibility, demands and complaints for so long - and she knew it.

He still had her hand and wouldn’t release it however gently she tried to free it.

A part of her went still, understanding he wouldn’t let it go.

She realized too that she couldn’t look at him long. Her own loneliness cried out to her.

As with all his people, there was a beauty in his calm sureness. He attracted her with his compassion and kindness, with that devastating beauty, dark silky hair and silvery eyes. A sudden yearning came over her, to be touched and held, to give and be given comfort. The sudden rush of heat - of need - raced through her with such shocking intensity it stunned her, catching her completely off guard. It was something she hadn’t allowed herself to think or feel in such a very long time she’d almost forgotten what it was.

His mere presence made her want what she hadn’t had…couldn’t have.

Dorovan was Elf. She was of the race of Men. It was foolish even to think it.

Even this touch though, this sweet clasp of hands, was more than she’d known for more years than she could count.

The sudden sting of tears in her eyes horrified her. With an effort she turned her head away, forced a smile and a light laugh.

“I have plenty of people here,” she said, in answer to his statement.

And she did, all around her, but none who touched her.

Dorovan could feel the weight on her heart as much as he sensed her sudden bright burst of need, desire. Unlike many of her kind though, she turned away from it.

In all his time he’d never seen another living creature so alone and so in need of simple comfort. And yet she would deny herself that, even when offered.

Reaching out, a small frown creasing his forehead though he didn’t know it, Dorovan drew her chin around and up so he could look into her eyes and held her there until she looked back at him. It was so little to give and so much to receive.

Delae couldn’t be so rude as to tear herself away from him, nor so cowardly as not to face him, so did what she could to try to hide that which ached inside her until she saw what was in his eyes and then all the breath escaped her in a soft rush.

Slowly Dorovan lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was so sweet, so gentle that Delae’s fragile heart broke…and opened to let him in.

She gave herself freely, asking nothing but what he was willing to give, save that he let her give what she could to no other… In a moment he knew it all, all her sorrow, her pain. He grieved for her and admired her for the strength and will that kept her going.

His mouth closed over hers, tasting her, her spirit, her soul, as she tasted him.

It was a gift she offered him and he to her and he knew it, knew how precious it was as something within him opened to take what she offered.

His long strong body was pressed against hers and to Delae’s surprise she found her hands skimming up the long lean muscles of his back and felt them flex beneath her hands as he drew her closer.

Fire such as she’d never known raced beneath her skin, setting heart, soul, mind and body ablaze.

Dorovan speared his long fingers into the rich abundance of her brilliant hair, feeling the curls close around each one as his mouth took hers. Her hair was silken and springy within his fingers, so different from his people. Suddenly he wanted to explore her, to seek out all the differences in her and to define the likenesses. Pleasure and anticipation rushed through him. What would it be to touch her, to feel her - to share with her?

In one movement he swept her up in his arms.

“Dorovan,” she breathed, half in protest.

Gently, he brushed his mouth over hers.

“Hush,” he said, “I know.”

So much stood between them. It was unheard of.

He did know and yet he still did it.

Delae wanted to weep; from relief, from need.

Dorovan set her on her feet by her bed only long enough to kiss her once again, sliding his hands over her to brush both her robe and the threadbare nightdress beneath it from her shoulders. They slid to the floor with a soft whisper of sound, leaving her bared and breathless.

“Lovely,” he breathed and she looked up at him in astonishment and wonder that he, an Elf, should think so, think one of her race so.

He smiled to see it. To him she was.

She was so small - compared to most of his folk - but sweetly curved and rounded in all the places a woman should be.

Sliding his hands down her arms he caught her around the waist, looking down and over her, letting his pleasure and satisfaction show clearly, as he would to another of his kind.

In wonder, Delae touched his face - just the lightest caress of her fingertips along his cheek - as her lips parted.

His eyes seemed to glow, a small smile curved his beautiful mouth.

She took in every inch of his face. His beauty nearly destroyed her but what she saw in his eyes did, destroying her fragile composure.

Watching his face almost shyly, she ran her hands over Dorovan’s chest, feeling the strong curved muscles there and her eyes widened with delight.

Because he knew she wouldn’t, he stripped off his tunic and watched her eyes grow round as she spanned his chest with her hands. Dorovan almost had to laugh at her evident pleasure in touching him.

She looked so much like a child faced with a wonder that his heart broke for her. It was so little for him to give. And so much. He longed to caress her himself but he gave her this moment.

Delae couldn’t get enough of touching him, of running her hands over all the beautiful sculpted lines of him. He was amazing to look at, a delight to touch, his skin beneath her fingers like warmed silk stretched over the firm curves of his muscles.

Curiosity warred within her; what did the rest of him look like?

Her gaze flashed up to his, a little sideways glance, almost abashed, as she reached for the tie to his trews.

Slowly, she tugged on the string that closed them, unconsciously seductive.

Curious, she paused with one hand on the tie while she slid the other lightly along the silken cloth to feel what was beneath it… He was rigid beneath the cloth.

His pleasure was evident in his pale eyes.

It astonished her, who was so used to rejection.

Dorovan looked down, to see Delae looking up at him in obvious delight that she could do this to him.

For a moment, her gaze dropped, widened, and she blinked. Her lips parted on a sigh.

Had his body not already grown as taut as it had, it would’ve grown even more so then.

Involuntarily, he groaned.

Delae’s gaze shot up to his.

Another groan escaped him at her touch, at that look.

He held his gaze on hers as she tugged and his trews slid free.

Gently he curled an arm around her back, lifted her to the bed and lowered her onto it. She was so beautiful, her body so welcoming, her breasts full and lovely.

He lowered his mouth to one, kissed the rosy tip.

Pleasure rang through Delae so intensely she cried out as heat shot through her in brilliant flood. She’d never felt anything like it. It was wonderful, incredible…

This first time it would go quickly, Dorovan knew. He could sense that her need was too great, she’d gone too long without. As was his desire to salve that need. It pained him to think it, knowing her sweetness. Among his folk this they did here was very nearly a sacred act - a thing of joy, of sharing and of joining.

There would be time later for finesse - for deeper delight - now he would slake her thirst and his own. He could take his time later, the storm outside without wouldn’t pass soon, he knew. His own hunger for her surprised him even as he settled his hips in the cradle of hers - felt her heat, her dampness. The anticipation of pleasure sent a surge through him as her legs parted and she took him inside her. For a moment he held them both there, rapt in pleasure as she closed so tightly around him - buried in her warmth, in the heated dampness, in the pleasure of her, his eyes closed to savor every sweet inch of her around him.

Beneath him Delae arched, a soft cry of joy escaping her.

Opening his eyes, he looked down into her face - into the heartbreaking wonder on her face as he filled her.

With deliberate slowness, Dorovan moved deeper inside her as her hands caressed him - lowering his mouth to hers once again, to kiss her deeply.

Delae tangled her hands in the silken lengths of his hair as it streamed around her, feeling the long smooth strands brush over her breasts tantalizingly. Her body bent to take him deeper, to offer him more, to offer him everything she could give - the only thing she had, herself.

It was maddening, delirious to feel Dorovan inside her, to feel the glorious pleasure of him. He filled her so very completely, stretching her; his mouth on hers, his hands on her.

Dorovan took her, in delight and a wonder of his own, sliding sweetly inside her until he claimed the very depths of her, one arm beneath and around her shoulders, the other on her hip. He raised his head to look down at her, her flaming hair spread across the thin pillows. Her blue eyes were half-lidded, fluttering, a smile of sheer glory on her lips to feel him so deep inside her.

Dorovan felt her close around him, tighten quickly. Her body arched as ecstasy burst through her.

He watched as color washed beneath her milky skin, saw her eyes widen with astonishment and then her lips curve in unadulterated delight.

It was a joy to watch her find her pleasure, to feel her pulse around him, stroke him within her.

He let her racing heart settle and then, looking down at her, began to move within her again.

To his delight he saw her eyes widen as she looked up at him. It was clear this was something she’d never known, that the one who loved her might withhold his own pleasure to give her that much more.

And himself.

He knew she watched as he lowered his mouth to her other breast, drew that tender tip into it and suckled it. Each motion of his mouth was echoed within her, her body caressed him, stroked him. He nibbled and she grew taut, her body jolting in response.

Delae couldn’t believe it, it was nearly more than she could bear - each movement of his mouth on her was hot and sweet, each sent a burst of pleasure down to where he filled her, to the core of her. She was in heaven, feeling him swell within her, to throb, to pulse.

The pleasure was no longer his to control, Dorovan felt his own ecstasy hover as she closed around him in a rapture of her own. His pleasure swelled within her, expanded, and he thrust deeply, his cheek beside hers now as she clung to him. Her hips rose to meet his as he plunged into her and then he exploded, pleasure erupting from within him, filling her even as she cried out to feel him spill into her.

Delae had never known it could be like this, so beautiful, so wonderful. The few times her husband had touched her had seemed like nothing more than the mindless rutting of the beasts in the field. Instead her body still seemed to echo with their joined pleasure even as it hummed through her veins - their bodies still locked together.

When Dorovan could finally move - still buried inside her - he inched them up the bed so they were completely in it and then drew the covers over them, cradling Delae close.

He looked down at her, brushed the fiery strands of her hair from her face gently, pausing a moment to muse at the one curled around his finger. A smile curved his mouth.

“You are a part of my heart,” he said, in wonder, “as my people say a friend-of-my-heart.”

It wasn’t a soul-bond, but it was a bond of a kind and a true one, something he’d thought unknown and possibly impossible with one of the race of men. Yet it was there, unmistakably there. It was far more than he’d had and with Delae, this woman of men who was a wonder and a joy to him, who knew Honor as his people did, who was a balm to his heart.

As he was to hers.

Impossible as it was, it was what it was and for all the difficulty of it, all the difficulty it would bring him, Dorovan couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry for it.

Delae looked up at him, hearing in the tenderness in his voice all she needed to hear, all she could accept. It was enough and more than enough. Her heart filled, where it had been empty for so long.

“Friend of the heart,” she said, softly, a smile curving her lips. “Yes, you are.”

And he was.

Chapter Three

Outside the storm raged, rattling the shutters, sending blasts of cold through the gaps between them. Awakening with Delae’s soft, sweetly scented body against his was a delight. Dorovan found it wasn’t just her hair that glowed so warmly but her body, too. She was like a small banked fire that radiated heat. Gently drawing her against him - he nestled himself between her smooth thighs and sleepily stroked her, cupping the full globes of her breasts in his hands. She was delightful as she shivered to awareness - her body heating for him in quite another way, growing tantalizingly damp.

Delae found herself aching to be filled and then Dorovan’s hand slid down her belly to comb through the tight curls between her thighs.

It was breathtaking as he touched her - coaxed her body to fire and then to flame at the very moment he entered her. A soft cry burst from her as he drove deeply into her.

Almost desperately, Delae pressed back - the heat inside her a demand which needed to be answered.

She was so wet and so very warm and she’d so needed to be filled.

Her soft cry fired Dorovan’s blood and he answered it, touching her lightly, caressing her until her body hummed, until she tightened around him again as he thrust inside her.

He felt her body tremble and he was lost, exploding inside her, filling her in quite another way.

Delae had never felt so sated, so thoroughly eased. She smiled and sighed.

In all her years, in that moment she knew true happiness for the first time, a peace and a joy that had always been denied her.

More than content, Dorovan drew her against him, still inside her and quite pleased to be there. He opened his eyes.

Now there was time for details.

Her bedchamber was like her, small, warm and welcoming. There were touches of Delae here, dried sweet herbs in a bowl on the mantel that lent their scent to the room. Simple but brightly dyed draperies the color of sunset covered the windows, a small tapestry hung from on a wall.

There was a sword behind her door. A simple but serviceable enough weapon.

Studying it, puzzled, he asked with a nod of his head toward it, “Why do you have a sword behind your door?”

With a small shrug, she said, “We live far from aid and there’s no one else. So it’s there… in case.”

Delae didn’t mention it was there for other reasons, that one was enough.

Lifting one elegant eyebrow, he asked - not unkindly, “Do you know how to use it?”

Bemused, she looked at him in question.

“I’m Swordmaster for my Enclave,” he said, “among other things.”

She took a breath and smiled. “Ah.” She eyed him. “Will you teach me to use it better then?”

Dorovan smiled, pleased. There were much worse ways to spend a day in the storm.

“Yes.”

It suited him too, that she would know how to defend herself properly.

“After breakfast,” she said, delighted and ran on light bare feet to the door to peek around it and call, “Petra?”

“Yes, lady?” A distant voice answered.

“Breakfast in the great hall, please?” Delae asked. “I would ask to have Dorovan join me.”

She well knew it was best if no one remarked that Dorovan had spent the night in her bed, therefore the subterfuge. Elves didn’t lie with the women of men, or so it was said. Intensely aware of his presence behind her, she couldn’t deny the thrill that went through her to know he was indeed there.

“Yes, Lady,” came the reply.

She was naked and completely unconcerned with it to Dorovan’s delight. Her body was lovely to look upon unclothed. She only drew on her nightdress and robe to breakfast in, her thick bouncy red hair bound back with a tie.

Reaching out, Dorovan pulled the tie free to plunge his hands into the thick mass of it.

“I like it free,” he said.

A little startled, she looked up at him. No one else ever had.

Her throat inexplicably tight, she said, “All right.”

On the issue of shoes though, she wouldn’t bend, refusing to put any on no matter how cold the floors might be.

The day outside was as gloomy and forbidding as Dorovan had feared. The wind rattled at the shutters and guttered the fire.

Within though - with candles and the firelight to chase away the darkness and the worst of the chill and Delae’s bright hair another spark of brilliance - it was almost cozy.

Breakfast was simple but good as well, oatmeal with dried fruit and nuts, with more of the thick rough bread.

“All right,” he said. “To begin, we’ll use the fireplace poker.”

“Why?” she asked. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Very gently, he said, “Because you would be very unhappy to find my blood all over your floor. There is nothing as dangerous as a beginner. They do unexpected things.”

Just at the idea, her face blanched. “I would be very unhappy. Perhaps it would be good if we barred the other doors, also?”

He nodded.

It was no sacrifice to Delae to bar the door to the west wing of the quadrangle. . Petra and Hallis were likely cozied up in their own little room beside the fire. Her new guests in the east were likely still recovering from the ordeal during the night. She'd never felt so well rested and so well, so alive, in all her memory.

She went to get the poker.

Coming to stand behind her, gently, kindly, Dorovan changed her hold on it.

“You’re learning something as a grown woman that children in the Enclaves learn when they are just old enough to take such instruction,” Dorovan said. “They too start with blunt weapons.”

He taught her very basic moves, stripping off his tunic as it became too warm in the room from their exertions. Delae, still in her nightdress, had already cast off the hampering robe.

To his pleasure she was an apt student and he was more than quick enough when she did make a mistake to check the poker before it did him any harm. He was a good teacher, never making her feel foolish.

“Very good,” he said, although he was having difficulty concentrating now and then for the distraction of the sway of her breasts beneath the thin, well-worn material of her nightdress, for the flash of her leg beneath the skirts and for the swirl of her fiery hair. “Now, pay attention.”

Taking up his shortsword, he walked through the motions of the strike he wanted her to make.

Watching him, Delae had to make an effort to keep her attention on him. It was difficult to concentrate sometimes, for the beauty of his body as he moved distracted her - the sight of his muscles flexing and tightening. Both of them were sweating with exertion and his skin gleamed with it - the scent of him was rich in the air.

Her body heated and tightened.

“I’m sorry, Dorovan,” she said, distracted and fighting it, “please show me again.”

He caught both the gleam and diversion in her eyes, but he also saw her effort to concentrate.

The thought that his body sidetracked her had its pleasures.

She took the position he wanted as he took up both swords and when he nodded she came at him, the ‘sword’ flashing in the correct sequence.

It was maddening to watch, her lustrous hair swirled and bounced over her slender shoulders.

With one swift move Dorovan sheathed his swords and ducked beneath the poker to catch her around the waist, driving her back against the wall.

There was no effective move Delae could use to counter him that wouldn’t hurt him and then she found she didn’t want to. The poker clattered to the floor as he tugged the neck of her nightdress down to her waist to devour her breasts. His hands raced over her slick skin as her own skimmed up over his ribs.

In an instant her hands were buried in the long, silky length of his hair as he feasted on her, each tug and pull of his mouth sending a rush of heat through her.

To Dorovan she tasted of salt and Delae. She gasped, her hands in his hair as he devoured her, her nipple between his lips, against his tongue. It was hard in an instant. As was he.

Desperate to have her he drew the nightdress up, slid his hand between her thighs to find her hot, damp and so tight. He slid his fingers inside her and she moaned.

“Please, Dorovan,” she cried.

Need was a bright flash of heat and passion.

In one smooth motion he lowered her to the floor as her thighs opened to him and he took her there, plunging into her as her hips pumped to take him, soft cries of pleasure escaping her as she arched and writhed beneath him. Each motion only fired him more as she clung to him, pulsed around him. He came with a cry and his seed poured into her as she followed him into exaltation.

Both of them were laughing as he looked down at her and she looked up at him, careful not to laugh so hard he left her.

“The pommel of a sword here, here or here,” he said, softly, indicating the top of his head, the shoulders and then back of his neck, “will incapacitate anyone who tries such a move.”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes lighting up as she wriggled a little underneath him.

“That,” he said, clearing his throat, “will drive your instructor mad.”

She was clearly delighted at the idea.

It was as if she were a virgin and he was lessoning her not just in swordplay, but the pleasures of the body. Dorovan was more than glad to be her teacher in both. Though she didn’t know it, the joining of their friend of the heart bond had shown him much - what he didn’t see, he surmised. She might as well have been a widow for how she lived.

Looking at the threadbare carpets, her simple and much patched clothing, he knew what she struggled with daily and railed against the fate that had set her there…and blessed it for what they could give each other.

Supper was as simple as all the meals had been, a thick stew supplemented with cheese and wine.

Afterward, he helped her fill the bath with water from the great oaken cask filled from the cistern on the roof over the kitchens and heated by the fire there.

It seemed to Delae that she couldn’t get enough of him. She was like a child with a new toy. He was such a delight to play with and she was so grateful for it. She was fascinated with him – with touching him – her gaze going to his face and back again as she stroked and played with him.

These moments alone were enough.

Curled in the bath, they explored each other slowly.

Dorovan couldn’t find it in himself to complain. If he taught her pleasure, she taught him delight. Until he couldn’t stand it and grasped her hands to still them, and she rose from the water to sink down on him, taking him deeply inside, riding him. Her tongue traced the sensitive curve of his ear and he moaned. Sucking, nibbling and biting, she drove him wild until he fastened his mouth on her breast. She came suddenly and fiercely, her hips bucking and he filled her, erupting into her as his hands dropped to her waist to keep her firmly impaled.

Chapter Four

Outside the storm showed no signs of abating, after several days it seemed only to have intensified. The wind rattled violently against the shutters, making the room seem all the more cozy, all the closer but not in an unpleasant way. Delae was like a travel stove, her small lush body radiating heat. Dorovan found himself content for the first time in years.

Those of Talaena would think he’d stayed in the North, while those in the North thought he was safe in Talaena. No one would worry. With the weather what it was, it was likely he wouldn’t be needed. Even the Borderland creatures would be hampered by the thick slushy mud and little inclined to chance such weather.

He couldn’t stay here forever, however much he wished it though - his Enclave called to him and he had his responsibilities there.

With a sigh, in an eerie echo of his own thoughts, Delae said, “I should spend some little time with my other guests.”

Shifting, Dorovan moved within her, making her smile.

“You are most persuasive, my Lord Dorovan,” she said, amused, “but I have my duty.”

He understood duty and smiled. “So you do, friend-of-my-heart. There is always later.”

Until the storm abated… Such time was precious.

Neither spoke of it.

Delae wouldn’t think about it - instead she dropped a kiss to his beautiful mouth.

He was such a wonder to her.

If these days were all she could claim she would be grateful for them.

“Put some shoes on,” he exclaimed as she rolled from the bed to pull on a simple dress, plain but serviceable, appropriate to visiting her guests.

Laughing, she shook her head at him and darted out into the hall, shoeless as always despite the chill of the floors.

“I’ll have Petra will fetch you breakfast,” she called.

Shaking his head, he followed her instead, pulling on trews to stand in the shadows of the arch to the east hall to watch her as she made her way down the passage, peering into the open doorways.

It was hardly the first time she’d visited with them and it was as if she were a magnet for the children, they poured out of the doorways at the sight of her, or clung to them to look out at her shyly.

Bold or shy, she had a gift with them. She coaxed the timid ones out gently, laughing with the others - her flaming hair a bright beacon in the dim light.

Leaning a shoulder against the doorway, keeping to the shadows, Dorovan watched.

Few of his folk knew much of the ways of men, they kept apart from them. An Agreement had been finally been forged between Elves, Dwarves and Men, but agreements like it had been signed before and it was always men who’d broken faith with them. This one, though - brokered by Elon of Aerilann - seemed to be holding as those in the past had not, but it had been only twenty years or so as men measured such things. Longer than those other treaties, but only a fraction of time for his long-lived folk.

Delae gave space to those who needed it but they watched her as she dandled the babies on her knee, inquiring after Forman, exclaiming over the splint on the arm of the girl who’d had it broken.

When she settled on a bench the children swarmed over her and her delight in them was obvious. She answered each question as they crawled over her or hung on her, one little girl with her hands on Delae’s knee, her bright eyes staring up at her as another played with her bright hair.

Dorovan watched from the shadows, his throat tight. His own folk had few children and so prized them for the precious lives they were. It was clear Delae longed for a child and that she would be a good mother to them. He would never understand this thing of men. How could a man choose dice and wine over such joy?

A soft voice beside him said, “She’s good with them, ain’t she, my lord? She should have a dozen little ones around her knees.”

Startled, a little alarmed, Dorovan looked down to see ancient Petra standing beside him. Few approached him - he and Delae had taken pains not to make it obvious he shared her bed.

The old woman was more than tiny; bent, her aging joints were twisted, her hands gnarled. No Elf ever showed such age, though they lived generations longer than men. For her sake he would’ve been happy to have the gift of Healing, if only to ease the pain he sensed in her.

“Have no fear, my Lord Dorovan,” the old woman said, “and the title is because you deserve it for making my mistress laugh as is her nature to do.”

Dorovan’s protest died on his lips. His folk cared little for titles and used only one - first among equals.

“There’s none here that will speak of you, for her sake,” Petra said. “She could leave us. There’s a dozen households would take her for her skill with a needle alone and none fault her for going but then what would become of us?”

Her fear was clear. And her shame.

“And so she stays. For us. Whatever you can give her of joy; it’s our gift to her for staying. Poor wee girl. She should have a dozen little ones around her. And thank the gods for her, though it shames me to do it. None of us will betray you, sir.”

It was a danger to him just being here so long and Dorovan had worried about it, as much as his folk did. There were many among men who would find a solitary Elf a target for their unreasoning hate. And Delae for offering it. His people traveled carefully, keeping to the back byways where they could. Nor could Dorovan ignore the risk Delae faced in giving him shelter either.

There was more danger still in their relationship.

Even among his folk such a thing was impermissible, while to the Dwarves it was nearly anathema. Among men…?

Petra with her words offered him and his friend-of-the-heart some measure of protection. A sorely needed refuge. For both he and Delae.

Taking a breath, Petra said, “What would you for breakfast, my lord? There’s oats and then there’s oats. Perhaps an egg or two?”

With a small chuckle Dorovan said, “I think I’ll have the oats, then.”

Tiny Petra smiled. “I’ll get bowls for you both. Do you like honey my lord? We have our own bees.”

“I do,” Dorovan said.

“Then you’ll have honey with your bread.”

Her hair dusted with snow, wind-blown and wild, Delae darted in the great room doors, her feet still bare.

Shaking his head, Dorovan helped bar the door before sweeping her off her feet, cradling her in his lap as he rubbed her feet warm between his hands.

Chapter Five

Three days later the storm finally broke and the first bright burst of sunlight speared through the clouds. Within hours the slushy snow began to melt. Delae watched it with poignant acceptance as the travelers packed their belongings into their wagon. They hadn’t been unpleasant guests. It was as it had to be.

Dorovan came up, laid a hand on her shoulder. Turning her head to look at him, Delae smiled and brushed her cheek against his hand.

It was time. He could find no more excuse to stay than Forman and his people.

“When will you go?” she asked, a heaviness lying on her heart.

In the way of friends-of-the-heart Dorovan loved her in that moment more intensely and more fiercely than he had any other, first for her generosity - that she would make it easier for him to go. As he must.

They both knew he couldn’t stay, nor could she leave. There was no place for the women of men in an Elven Enclave. His people, even as open-minded as they were, would never accept her.

Nor could she or would she leave her people and responsibilities here.

“Tonight,” Dorovan said, brushing his lips over her burnished hair, his heart aching for the loneliness to come, both his and hers. He, at least, would have his people. His voice was soft. “After moonrise. After we’ve loved again.”

“I’d best go out and see them off then,” she said, brushing her lips across his knuckles.

She smiled and let out a breath.

“I’ll return,” he said.

Her throat tight, Delae nodded.

He watched her go, a woman of infinite grace in both body and spirit.

Looking at her, he knew her own people wouldn’t call her beautiful, there was too much strength in her face for that, but she had too much spirit for any other name. Too much strength and too much heart. Honor and courage, too…

He would call her beautiful. His people would. For she was beautiful in spirit. Dorovan saw only that.

In the sunlight her hair glowed like fire, her simple clothes a covering and nothing more to the loveliness of her body.

Delae smiled up at pretty Yana in the seat beside Pell. Behind them, his head bandaged, was Forman.

“Journey safely,” Delae said, her hand on the side of the wagon.

“I’ll send payment to you - Lady Delae - for our time here,” Forman promised.

She patted his hand. “As you can, Forman. It was only my duty to those who cross my lands or by them, as you know.”

“I do,” he said, “but you did more and for that we thank you.”

The wagons trundled out through the gates, the children calling out a chorus of goodbyes.

Delae knew she would miss them, for all the little time they’d been here and the storm had kept them under roof, they’d been some company - folk she didn’t know.

It would be quieter in days to come.

Looking up at the sky she reflected that winter had only come for a brief visit. He would be back very shortly, though, with more force and for a longer stay, but for some little time they might have a respite between. Enough for Dorovan to return to his Enclave safely.

Her breath caught at the thought.

This had only been a respite, though, and she’d known that from the moment Doravan touched her.

Calling Morlis to her, she bade him prepare the cart to go to Riverford town for supplies. If they were to have good weather, she must get supplies brought in to make up for what had been lost with a dozen extra mouths to feed. Especially those growing children. She smiled. The sound of their laughter had been sweet.

Then she turned for the great room and Dorovan. For however short a time they had left, she intended to make the most of what remained.

He waited with open arms, to welcome her back into them.

For a time he sat beside her as she worked at the tapestry, telling her of his life among his people, stories she could never share but could hold to her heart in the difficult days to come.

Among her own folk Elves were considered arrogant and impassive. She now knew different. They simply didn’t show it except among their own kind. It grieved her to know why…because those bonds, those signs of caring had been used against them. By her own folk.

She knew also that the bond between she and Dorovan was something different, something more, for all that it wasn’t the soul-bond he awaited.

In a way, she hoped it would come and soon. She would rejoice for him in finally finding it, in finding someone who could love him freely, completely, as she couldn’t. In the meantime, they were a balm for each other and it pleased her deeply that she could give it to him. She loved him - heart and soul - for all that she couldn’t have him. She knew that, understood it.

It was enough.

They ate together and then they loved together, sweetly and deeply, one last time before he left.

It was harder than Dorovan had imagined to leave – even as his heart yearned for home, for Talaena, his beloved Enclave, for his people and his place there. To leave his friend-of-the-heart alone, without the empathy of his people to console her, that gave him such comfort…

He ached as he touched her face beneath the bright moonlight.

“I will miss you, friend-of-my-heart,” he said.

Eyes bright with unshed tears, Delae smiled and pressed her cheek against his hand.

“And I you as well, friend-of-my-heart,” she said, with a smile.

Taking a breath, knowing delaying made it no easier, Dorovan swung up onto Charis’s back.

“I will return,” he said.

Delae looked up at him and shook her head.

“I cannot hold to that - but you are and always will be the only friend of my heart.”

It pained him to hear it, but he understood. She must bear the days alone with only the hope of his return.

“You are loved,” he said.

She smiled brilliantly. “I know.”

On foot, she followed him to the gates.

Just once - because that was all he could bear - Dorovan looked back to see her standing there within the embrace of her gates. Her hair glowed like flame in his Elven-sight. There was brightness in her eyes and on her cheeks.

He turned his face toward home, leaving a part of his heart behind as he went.

Watching him until she couldn’t truly see him, Delae took one breath and then another before turning back to the homestead as the light of the full moon washed over it.

For a moment she stood looking.

This was her home. Even could she leave, even if she could live amongst the Elves – and that was unheard of – she wouldn’t. These people depended on her, they needed her. There was no one else for them. If she left, what would become of Petra and Hallis? For all they disparaged her, for all they sniped at each other, who would care for Cana and Kolan if not her?

She’d learned early and swiftly why it was they’d been so happy, so insistent she marry their son.

A daughter of one of their smallholders, Delae had been a good worker, steady and reliable, with a good head for figures and a better hand for needlework. Her tapestries had sold well in Riverford town and still did, earning them the extra coin they needed. Even the Queen of Riverford had bought one, once. Delae had no illusions about her appearance though - her hair was too red - even less about her temperament - she was too strong-willed - or about her station. She’d looked to going to Riverford or perhaps even Doncerric for work to help her family.

They’d been astonished when Cana and Kolan had looked to her as bride and wife to their son, Kort. He could have - should have - done better. The thought he might want her had been bewildering but exciting.

She’d been young and he’d been handsome in his own way, tall and lean, with thick dark brown hair and dark eyebrows over eyes as brown as hazelnuts. He could be charming, too, when he wished.

And he had been, then…

Their courtship had been whirlwind. Kort had bought her jewelry - long since sold - and fine dresses - now worn to shreds or turned to rags. He’d spoken fine words, had treated her like a Lady.

It had been a jump up for her family - a chance to rise in station.

She had no bitterness; it had been her choice to make and she’d made it.

If she’d ever been in love with Kort, though, that love had died quickly.

He’d ever and always had another love, a love greater than any other - gambling - which was why Cana and Kolan had been in such a hurry to get them married.

They’d barely passed their honeymoon when Kort had vanished for the first time…and with him most of the household funds, leaving her to manage the landholding and all the smallholders who were dependent upon it, with what little was left.

It had been a shock. But not to Cana and Kolan - who’d been shamefaced but unrepentant at first and then simply unrepentant - despite the fact that they depended on her.

She’d been heartbroken but even so somehow she’d managed.

Kort had returned months later, as charming as always, warm and loving, with profuse apologies, excuses, promises and gifts.

Warily, Delae had accepted them.

A week later he was gone, and with him most of their coin.

Delae never knew what possessed her to secrete some away but she had.

So he hadn’t left them completely destitute.

Once she’d actually gone after him, following him through the taverns of Riverford to the wine sinks of Doncerric, the High King’s city on the cliffs by the sea, and then to the opium dens of the desert city of Marakis.

She’d found him finally, dicing his money away - drunk and with a comely wench at his hip. His face had reflected his dissolute ways, his dissatisfaction, the dice his first pleasure, the doxy his second.

He hadn’t seen Delae but she’d seen him. And she’d noted he was winning for a change.

Both he and the doxy had been asleep when Delae walked into the room they shared. To her surprise, she’d felt no anger at seeing them, it was simple confirmation of what she’d already guessed. All she felt was weariness, a deep and abiding tiredness. She’d taken half his winnings and left, unobserved.

For a brief time she’d considered not returning to the homestead, to the duties that weighed on her so heavily, but she wouldn’t be foresworn on this. It wasn’t her vow to Kort that kept her but her promise as wife of the landowner. It was Dan and Morlis, poor damaged Tad, Petra and Hallis and so many of the others who had held her to this place through the years.

They needed her; it was that simple. It was her duty. She couldn’t desert them, not with honor. She’d made her oaths and promises. Kort had broken his but she couldn’t break hers, not and abandon these folk who needed her as he’d abandoned them. He could but so long as she was here, she wouldn’t, nor would she allow him to be named so, dragging his once good name into the mud.

If she were to leave, though…

Dan was a good enough smith but he had no head for figures. Morlis couldn’t read and could barely sum. Some of the smallholders were worse, although now that Delae tutored the children through the good weather there was a chance they would.

There was no one else.

In the winter she and Dan would make a circuit of those who didn’t come into the landholding to be sure they were all right, that no one had been injured or become ill. On bad days she worked at her tapestries from wool and linen made and dyed here on the holding and offered it for sale in Riverford in spring and summer.  That money gave them what they needed to tide them over through the winter.

The truth was though, that she loved this land. She loved the bitter, stark beauty of it in winter, the promise of it in spring, the sight of the lambs bouncing gaily on the green hills. The lush beauty of it in summer, the apple-laden limbs of the trees amid the brilliant leaves of fall, the immense wonder of the great Gorge hidden deep in the forest and the sweeping roll of the hills she could see from her window.

She already missed Dorovan and the pain in her heart was scalding in her chest.

Walking back to the great room, knowing it to be empty, she held her precious memories to her heart and closed the door behind her.

Resolutely, she walked to the bar that held the door to the west wing closed and lifted it. She set it in place. For a time she would have some privacy. Cana and Kolan rarely had cause to visit but Petra made certain they were fed.

She scrubbed her hands over her face wearily and went to her lonely bed.

Pressing her face to the pillow, she could still smell Dorovan’s scent on it.

And wept.

In the morning, she rode to Riverford for the supplies.

Chapter Six

It had been a long day but the weather had finally broken from another storm. Winter was winding up. The good thing was that there was a thick covering of snow, which meant the wells, springs and creeks would likely not go dry in summer unless it was as harsh as the winter promised to be. For that, Delae could only be grateful. She was mildly drunk on wine from toasting Dan and his handfasting to one of the miller’s daughters. Dan was only a scant five years younger than she and yet she felt that an age that lay between them, the years weighing heavily on her.

They seemed happy together though, Dan and his bride.

Still, it was a joyful occasion and there had been a great deal of laughter, some singing and dancing as Morlis played the gitar and one of the smallholders his pipe.

Escorting the last of the revelers out of the great room, listening as the wagons rumbled away into the night, Delae watched the clouds drift across the half moon. Had it only been a week? She smiled at her memories and took herself to bed, the wine sending her instantly and thankfully to sleep.

It was the sound of furniture scraping across the floor in the great room and a voice muttering hoarsely that woke her, sent a chill through her, a quick rush that made her knees weak. Had she left the bar off the door? She couldn’t remember. There was rarely any need.

No one else was here to do it, to defend, and so she must.

Grasping the sword behind the door, remembering when Dorovan had spotted it, she took it up. She feared his lessons might come in handy this night.

On bare silent feet, she hurried down the hall to the great room, a covered lantern in her free hand.

With the fire banked to coal and the moonlight that streamed through the shutters in the windows casting the only light, so the man who stood there was only a dim shadow.

The room was cold from the doors having been left open too long. One was still slightly ajar.

Quickly, Delae uncovered the lantern and stepped aside.

“Who are you to enter my home?” she demanded.

The figure turned, straightened and then swayed…

At first, she nearly didn’t recognize him he’d changed so much. His once handsome features were bloated. There were bags under his eyes. He’d gained an unsightly roundness in his belly and his skin was pale and white like a fish.

“Delae,” Kort said, drunkenly. “I’m home, wife.”

She wanted to weep but there was no point.

Her stomach churned and her jaw tightened. “Kort. What, wasn’t I sending you enough money? Have you lost it all already?”

After the third time he’d stolen from them, she’d simply paid him to stay away. It was simpler. Far easier than this.

Staggering only a little, he came toward her. “Where’s my greeting, wife? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“No,” she said and turned her head just enough to call over her shoulder, “Hallis, Petra, come welcome my husband home. My lord Kort needs a bath. Desperately.”

She evaded his reach, darting around him and back into the great room on nimble feet.

“A bath, Kort,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You reek.”

“My lady?” Hallis said, coming down the hall.

“Don’t call her Lady,” Kort snarled, shifting as drunks can do from sweet to sour in an instant. “She’s no Lady - she’s nothing but a common peasant.”

It was only true and had no power to hurt her anymore.

“Would you draw my Lord Kort a bath, Hallis?” Delae said, “Petra, would you fetch Milord’s parents? They would be glad to see him, I’m certain. And then prepare his rooms?”

She needed time, desperately.

“Yes, Delae,” they both said, eyeing Kort with wary displeasure before hurrying off to their assignments.

“A bath would be good,” he muttered, wandering back out to the great room, looking around blearily.

Cana and Kolan hurried out from their quarters with Petra behind them looking concerned.

“A meal for my lord, Petra,” Delae said quietly, “with plenty of fortified wine. I’m certain he had a long journey from wherever he was.”

Eyes widening knowingly, Petra nodded and hurried off.

Glancing back at the family reunion taking place in the great room as Kort’s parents fawned over him, Delae sighed. She’d never felt more alone.

She could only hope he drowned in the tub, as wrong as that thought was. Not that she’d be so lucky. She fought the urge to weep.

Quietly she made her way down the hall to her own rooms. This might be her only and last chance to hide what coin they had and she would take it, before giving Hallis a hand tightening the ropes of Kort’s bed and with his bath water. That water must be warmer than tepid; she wanted it to make him relaxed and drowsy, too sleepy to bother her.

Kort’s room was better appointed by far than any other in the house, with heavy draperies on the windows, thick padding on the mattress and thicker carpets on the floors. As a young girl it had amazed her.

She no longer slept in these rooms and hadn’t since Kort had left the second time.

Only one room was better than this one, the guest room where Dorovan had slept.

Thankfully, on the rare occasions Kort returned, he hadn’t sought her out beyond berating her during the daylight hours, drinking his nights away before stealing off into the darkness. Along with whatever he thought he could sell.

It was with relief that she heard him stagger to his room and slosh into the tub.

She took herself off to her own bed, wearily.

Only to be awakened by rough hands and Kort’s body pressed down on top of her, his breath thick with wine. She fought but he punched her, his fist glancing off her cheekbone, his heavy frame pushing her into the mattress as he entered her despite her tears.

“No willing wench and so I came home,” he said, thrusting hard, grunting with evident pleasure at her distress, “to my wife, who owes me her wifely duties.”

Caught between fury and despair, her head ringing from his blow, Delae resigned herself to endure. She fought off the urge to weep, remembering all too well Dorovan’s gentle touch, the sweet pleasure of him even as her husband grunted his way to satisfaction like a pig, spilling his seed inside her.

His body went lax as his pleasure loosened him.

With a wrench of her body, she shoved him off to send him tumbling to the floor. His flesh hit with an ugly smack as his head bounced off the stone with a sound like a rap of knuckles upon a ripe melon.

Rolling off the bed, she raced for the sword behind the door as he staggered to his feet.

She looked him in the eye as she pointed the sword at him.

“Get out and keep out. That’s the last time you touch me, Kort, or the next time I’ll gut you.”

“You’re my wife,” he snapped.

“So, suddenly you’ve remembered?” she shouted furiously. “Get out of my room and keep to your own. Or by God the next time you awaken you’ll be shorter by a few inches.”

She let the blade of the sword drop just enough to indicate what she meant.

His face blanched and his eyes narrowed.

Delae lifted her chin. “Get out or I’ll gut you where you stand and hang for it. Then what will your parents do? Where will your drinking and gambling money come from?”

He eyed her with a sneer.

“I had to do you in the dark to want you anyway,” he said and slammed out.

If it hadn’t been for the memory of Dorovan, the words would have hurt more, but they still pained her.

Delae bit her lip to hold back the tears, listening intently until she was sure he’d returned to his rooms and then she slipped down the hallway to the guest room where Dorovan had spent his first night.

She curled up around his pillows, pretending they were him and cried herself to sleep.

Miles away Dorovan awoke in the night, troubled by thoughts and dreams of Delae, his friend-of-the-heart. Rubbing his hand over his heart, he went out to the veranda and looked out over the railing at the sleeping Talaena Enclave spread around him, the smallest of the Enclaves and the most insular.

Delae was in trouble, something pained her. He had the strongest feeling she needed him and although it was very likely that whatever troubled her would be well over by the time he reached her; he also found he missed her presence.

Travelling that distance would grow easier with time and he would have to take care not to raise questions with his absences. In truth it was likely none would notice or question. It wasn’t their way.

Still, it wouldn’t do for anyone to find out who he went to see, more so if anyone found out he made love to her, however much they were friends-of-the-heart. It was forbidden with one of the race of men; however less fertile Elves were as a race.

It would take only care but he needed her and it was clear she needed him. Badly at the moment.

Charis awaited him at the stables. They had to take the short cut across the Gorge but it would still be a day or two before they reached Delae’s isolated homestead.

Chapter Seven

It took a long hot bath and a lot of scrubbing before Delae felt clean again. She only dared bathe while Kort was occupied with his parents.

She didn’t even attempt to hide the bruise on her face although his parents pretended it wasn’t there. No one else dared speak of it. Kort scowled at the sight. She simply went about her business, although it pained her deep in her belly to walk after his attentions the night before. It was as if she were bruised inside.

Knowing Kort, she ordered Morlis to take all of the best animals over to the lands of one of the smallholders. The last time Kort appeared he’d ridden off with her prize stallion to sell as riding stock. It had taken two weeks to get it back and she’d been lucky to get the animal before he’d been gelded.

Kort had sold him for a fraction of what he’d had been worth.

Petra held a cold piece of meat to the Delae’s bruise to ease the pain.

“Why is he here?” she whispered.

“Either I’m not sending him enough coin,” Delae said with a sigh, “or he’s spending it too quickly. Otherwise, I don’t know.”

She didn’t dare offer him more money to leave either or he’d be convinced there was more she wasn’t giving him, that she’d been holding back from him.

Which of course she was.

Over the course of the day many of the folk of the homestead reported Kort skulking and poking about as if he looked for something. He was short-tempered and angry - so much so that most of their people actively avoided him.

There was an air about him even Delae found disturbing, as if he were on edge for some reason.

If she didn’t know better, she’d have said he was frightened. But what could he be frightened of here? There was no one to challenge him except her. Yet he was clearly nervous and irritable, even more so than usual. It was disturbing and unsettling.

She knew better than to ask, it was unlikely he would tell her.

In disgust, Kort slammed his knife down at the food offered to him for dinner.

“Tasteless slop,” he snarled. “I get better in the slums of Doncerric.”

Most days Delae ate alone, save when Dorovan had been here. It was only on the rare occasions when Kort was here that they ate together as a family. It was a sham, a sop to convention, but it kept the peace and Delae couldn’t deny the benefits of it.

Not this time, though.

Lifting her eyes to him, without a glance at his mother and father who well knew this was the best the homestead had to offer, Delae said, “Then why don’t you go back?”

“I should,” he shouted and threw the bowl at her as he stormed away from the table, taking the jug of wine with him.

The bowl glanced off the arm she threw up to protect her face.

As angry as he was, she took care not to sleep in her own bed that night.

Still, she didn’t get a peaceful night’s sleep either.

“Lady,” Hallis whispered, “milady, wake up, I been keeping guard, keeping watch, he’s gone and found it…”

Stunned, furious, she shot to her feet, terrified and nearly in tears.

If he had, she’d kill him.

“Go to bed, Hallis,” she said, quietly and, snatching up the sword, ran down the hall.

“Might have known this was where the bitch hid her money,” Kort muttered, holding a single candle, pulling the bag from the hidden niche in the wall.

Quietly, from the doorway Delae said, “And if you take it, we’ll starve.”

He spun, furiously, reminding her suddenly and startlingly of a maddened boar with his bloated face.

She fought the urge to weep, to beg.

“Where is it? There should be more!” he demanded.

“Supplies were needed,” she said, begged. Pleaded. Fighting sobs. “We bought them. Half, Kort. Take half and go. I’ll send you more as soon as we have it. Half, no more.”

“Or what?” he snarled.

She looked at him. “Or you try to get past me and one of us dies. I’ll take my chances with King Hastan, thank you very much”

“Hastan and his Dwarven bride with their half-breed son,” Kort said. “At least he’s prettier than you. Think you can best me?”

There were tales of Dwarven women who were as big and bulky as their men but Delae knew better. In truth they were small, warm and lovely. Delae had been lucky enough to meet the Queen of Riverford two summers past when she’d bought one of Delae’s tapestries.

She only answered his last question.

“A sword in the gut?” she said with a careless shrug, “you’ll be just as dead, it will just take longer. Or, I might slip…”

The sword tip dropped a little, toward his second most-prized possession.

His jaw tightened in fury but her eyes stayed level with his.

Dumping the coins on the bed, he swept up half, his expression bitter and angry.

She made certain to stay out of his way, her sword up and on guard as he left but she followed him warily to be certain he was, indeed, going.

There was an air of desperation and fear about him.

Watching, she saw him go into the stables and ride out on the horse he’d ridden in on. Frowning at his haste but in some relief she watched him ride out through the gates as if hellhounds were after him.

As a precaution, though, she set guards to watch in case he came back for more.

She didn’t tell anyone he hadn’t gotten even half of her stash of coins, knowing better than to put all her eggs in one basket. Especially where Kort was concerned.

Delae fell to her knees, the precious coins in her lap and wept with relief.

This much at least, was safe.

It was a blow all the same, as it made a significant dent in their funds. Things would be tight, very tight, if the winter was too harsh. As it looked to be. She would have to ration food far earlier than she’d hoped and their solstice celebration would be chary, too.

Nor did she sleep in her own bed that night either, as a precaution. She wouldn’t have her sleep interrupted so again anytime soon.

Chapter Eight

Daylight couldn’t come soon enough for Delae. With no sign of Kort she had the animals brought back to the stables and sheds.

“It’s your fault,” Cana shouted, charging down the quadrangle. “It’s your fault Kort left so quickly.”

“And his fault if we starve through the winter, Cana,” Delae said back, just as sharply, “for lack of the grain to feed us. There will be little meat this winter as we may have to sell one of the cows. No milk, no cream, no cheese, either, if we do.”

The furious woman came up short at the threat. No milk for her bread and honey each night? She turned and stomped away in a huff.

Delae closed her eyes, pressed her fingers to her eyelids as she took a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she turned back toward the great room.

“Pay no attention to her, Delae,” Petra said, stoutly. “And we can do on half rations.”

With a smile, Delae patted Petra’s comforting hand on her arm. “For all my words to Cana, it’s not so bad as that yet, Petra, we might simply have to butter the bread a little more thinly for a time until I’m sure.”

A breath of a relief burst out of the aged little woman. She loved her bread soaked in cream and honey as much as the old bitch did.

With a small chuckle, Delae went on her way.

Her fingers drifted over the tapestry on the loom, remembering… Her throat tightened as she sat before it and chose her threads. In her thoughts was Dorovan’s lovely deep voice, telling her about life in Talaena, of how beautiful it was. She could only imagine it but some of it she set into the threads of the tapestry she wove, smiling as afternoon light slowly gilded the room in light.

That smile didn’t last long when she heard the first cry of alarm from the yard.

The first shout had Delae racing for the doorway, some instinct telling her that this, this, was what Kort had truly feared.

Morlis had spotted the black-clad riders coming and now ran to try to shut the gates, calling for help.

Damn you, Kort, what have you done? she wondered as she spun and ran for her sword.

Petra and Hallis rushed down the hall toward her at the shouts from the yard.

“Bar all the entrances, Hallis, Petra,” Delae said, snatching up her sword, fighting back her fear. “Go as quickly as you can. Get water heated and bandages ready. Go.”

Frightened, Petra said, “What is it, Delae?”

“I don’t know,” Delae said, as they heard another shout of alarm from outside. “But it’s bad. Bar the doors behind me. Your lives on it if you don’t.”

She ran, her skirts flying.

It was too late.

The riders hit the rapidly closing gates hard with the speed of their arrival, sending Morlis flying as the wooden gates slammed against his body, flinging him backwards.

Dan came running from the forge, a hammer and a piece of heated iron in his hands to face a dozen men on horseback, all armed with swords, some in leather armor.

The horses and riders milled around in the courtyard, disturbed by the smell of the hot iron, turning for the oak and iron-clad doors to the great room.

Where Delae stepped out with sword in hand to face them.

Behind her, she heard the bar on the door fall into place with a solid chunk.

There was no retreat, but if she didn’t win here retreat was not an option. A part of her wanted to weep, but she couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

“Dan – get Morlis,” she said calmly, seeing her hostler sprawled by the gates, shaking his head to clear it. She turned to the men before her. “The gates to the homestead itself are barred. Name your business here.”

She gave a significant glance to Dan, whose eyes widened at her words, knowing the doors would have to be battered open. He nodded, keeping his eyes warily on the intruders as he went to Morlis.

The leader of the invaders looked at her.

“You won’t gain entrance,” she said. “What is your business here?”

“Do you even know how to use that?” he asked, glancing at the sword.

A week’s lessons from an Elven Swordmaster were better than nothing by far, and certainly better than many of these who would know only how to hack and slash.

“Well enough to cut the first one or two who try me,” she said evenly. “Who wants to go first?”

The leader burst out in laughter as he eyed her.

Beyond him, Delae could see Dan help Morlis back to the barn before releasing him so he could close the stable doors as well. Dan gestured to the women and children, including his own Lucie, sending them into the miniature fortress that was the forge. Morlis quietly drew the doors shut behind him. All the smallfolk were safe and secure.

Now she was truly alone.

Dan shut the outer doors behind him, mallet and steel in hand, to guard the entrance and to aid Delae if he could.

His loyalty and courage touched her.

“Again,” she said, as much to keep their attention on her. “What is your business here?”

“Is this the homestead of landowner Kort?”

Kort.

She closed her eyes. She might have known. Now she understood his fear, his anxiety. He must owe a great deal to engender this result.

“You just missed him,” she said. “He left only hours ago, heading south and west. If you leave now you can probably catch him.”

With a roar, the leader burst into laughter.

“I like you,” he said. “You’re a feisty wench. It must be the red hair. You must be the bitch he speaks of? His wife?  Is that you? Are you his wife?”

“There’s nothing for you here,” she said, evenly, in answer. “Just go.”

Behind him, she saw Morlis reach out for the door to the hayloft and draw it closed. At least they wouldn’t fear fire.

“Kort owes my some money,” the leader said.

“A pity,” Delae said. “He should know better than to lend it to drunken gamblers. There’s no money here, Kort took it all.”

The leader looked around at the homestead, only then noticing doors that had once been open were now shut and Dan standing guard at the forge.

“As I said,” Delae repeated. “There is nothing for you here. Kort has every coin we had. If you leave now, you might catch him.”

It would serve him right to face the consequences of his actions for once. Or perhaps he could ride fast enough to outrun them.

Eyeing the closed and barred courtyard, the leader turned to her. “Somehow I don’t think so. You seem a smart woman. Too smart to let him take it all.”

Delae swore softly in her mind but took a page from the Elves - from Dorovan - and kept it from showing on her face.

If they took the money, it was die now or starve later. Even if they sold all their stock - if these didn’t take them, too - barring a miracle they would simply starve the next winter instead. And Kort would still be out there between waiting for more…or coming back for what little remained.

There was nothing else to do but brazen it out.

“I repeat,” she said, “there is nothing for you here. Just go.”

With a shrug, the leader said, “There is always you. Better a bird in the hand. Sell you to the slave markets and we’d get something at least. You’re a little thing but bold and pretty enough with that red hair. If nothing else, you’ll fetch a hefty price.” He smiled. “I’d be first in line to break you in. You’ve got spirit.”

Just the thought sent a shudder through her although she didn’t show that either. Or how utterly terrified she was.

She would fight, though, because she must.

With a shake of his head the bandit signaled to his men.

“Get the doors down,” he commanded. “Take her.”

Delae looked at Dan, holding one hand low, praying he’d listen as his muscles bunched.

It was likely they’d both die here but those they loved might not.

The riders dismounted, pushing their horses out of the way. Delae never took her eyes off the leader as two of his men headed toward her. The others gathered together laughing and shoving each other as they turned toward the doors to the great room.

If they did break in, they’d be sadly disappointed to find only two old men and two old women inside. Kort’s mother and Delae’s servant.

But they were Delae’s. Her responsibility. She set herself as the two men neared and then she nodded.

Dan charged with a shout, mallet and heated iron swinging.

It was a distraction and all she needed.

Delae ran and spun, her wrists locked as Dorovan had taught her. She felt the impact of steel against skin and bone, as sharpened steel sliced effortlessly through flesh. Her mind shied away from the thought and from the shower of blood that drenched her skirts even as she turned to the next, ducking beneath a swing that might have taken her head off.

A blade flashed in the late afternoon sunlight as the second drove his sword down at her head. She took it on her own with both hands. The force of the blow made her hands sting but she didn’t drop the blade, only her shoulder as she slid out from beneath it and danced away. Even as she spun and turned she drew the sword after her and felt it bite into flesh as the man shouted in pain.

It was the movement of mass – the sudden beat of hooves that made her turn – spinning and ducking as the leader spurred his horse at her, grabbing for her hair.

He missed.

Setting his horse on his heels, the leader turned it and swung even as a third man charged toward her.

Her long hair flowing around her like liquid fire in the sunlight, Delae fended off one blow even as she arched to avoid another, the smith Dan swinging his mallet mightily, encircled by swordsmen.

As Dorovan rode toward the gate that was what he saw - he set heels to Charis’s ribs unnecessarily as the sound of battle rang in the air. Charis was stretched full out but the gallant Elven-bred reached farther.

His heart nearly stopped even as a part of him admired the wonder and beauty, the grace of Delae, her courage as she fought, always, against impossible odds.

Then his swords were in his hands. He spun the blades around them, bright Elven steel sending shards of light coruscating to splinter against the buildings.

It was that light that startled the raiders; it caught their attention, even as he shouted, “Delae!”

Hope against hope, Delae heard Dorovan’s familiar deep voice and cried, “Dorovan!” even as she spun away from the third raider, dodging the leader as he rode down on her.

The leader turned at the shout, his eyes widening as he looked up to see an Elven warrior bearing down on him.

In an instant, two of his men fell to the Elf’s swords as the Elf’s horse spun, its feet lashing out to send one of those battling the smith flying.

With a roar, the leader set his spurs to his horse and charged as his men scrambled to rally themselves.

At the last minute he threw himself off his horse - dodging the Elf’s blades - scrambling out of the way as his horse slammed into the huge Elven-bred.

Prepared for the impact, trained for it, Charis braced, staggering only a little as he drove the lesser beast off with teeth and hooves.

Dorovan was off the horse in one smooth motion, striding across the quadrangle as the bandit leader ducked behind the shelter of his men. They came at him.

Against swordsmen of such little skill as these, it was hardly a contest. Dorovan was Elf, Swordmaster for Talaena. These were bandits with no skill and less training.

Spinning in, dropping low, Dorovan ducked one sword and parried another effortlessly before his longsword took one even as he went beneath the other man’s guard. His shortsword took that one as he turned another’s blade with a flick of his wrist. One staggered back, mortally wounded. The other two were already dead.

He advanced on the leader.

“Dorovan,” Delae shouted, seeing a bandit behind him, preparing to throw his sword like a javelin.

It was like watching a dancer, Dorovan was so smooth as he spun and turned to avoid the thrown blade.

To Dorovan’s alarm, he saw the leader smile.

From the corner of his eye he saw one of the men charge Delae, catching her around the waist from behind, lifting her from the ground. But the man hadn’t caught her arms. Or the sword in them.

She arched backward, driving her sword back over her head to glance off that of the man who held her.

With a shriek, the man released her.

Dropped to her feet, she spun, cleaving the man’s head from his shoulders.

His swords at ready, Dorovan advanced slowly as Delae ran lightly but swiftly to join him, waiting until she had his back.

The leader of the bandits and the remainder of his men charged.

Dorovan wove a curtain of steel around them, moving and turning as blood flew and men screamed - Delae fighting at his back, keeping it safe.

These, unskilled and untrained, were nothing against an Elven Swordmaster and his friend-of-the-heart.

Then there was only the leader left and Delae stepped away, however much her heart was in her throat, even knowing Dorovan was Elf, to leave this for him to do.

Once more she was caught by the beauty and grace of him as the leader of the bandits screamed and charged, hammering blows on Dorovan’s swords.

Dorovan simply parried and then his blade flicked. The bandit leader staggered. Dorovan stepped cautiously away, sheathing his swords as he reached for Delae.

Blood gushed but the bandit appeared not to notice it as he toppled.

Delae went into Dorovan’s embrace with relief, pressing her face into his chest.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Looking down at her, Dorovan said “You are the friend-of-my-heart, my only bond and you are loved. You were hurt and so I came.”

A little frown crossed her face. “But it would’ve taken days…”

Her breath caught, remembering, knowing what it was he’d sensed and she pulled away, color draining from her face, shame and horror piercing her…

Dorovan caught her, seeing the stricken look in her eyes. “What is it? Tell me…”

“Kort was here,” she said, softly, raising her hand almost involuntarily to the bruise on her cheek. Her voice sank. “I couldn’t stop him...”

It took a second before Dorovan understood. This was a thing of men no Elf understood. How could one gain pleasure from such a thing, to turn something of such beauty into ugliness…?

Fury nearly hazed his vision. “He forced you…”

She closed her eyes.

“He’s my husband…,” she said, miserably, tears streaming.

Taking her chin in his hand, Dorovan tilted her face up so she could see his eyes.

“He broke his oath to you a thousand times, Delae, yet you have never broken your faith to him. He married you to this duty, not for love or honor. You have done it and still do it. In honor you owe him nothing. Nothing! Do you hear me?”

Brushing her hair back from her face, he said, “Know this, Delae. What we have is a faith of the heart. It can be broken only by death and nothing else. We could not have it if you were faithless. As the friend-of-my-heart, I love you. I don’t care what he does or what the laws of men say. In your heart, you know honor and keep it. As I can, I will always come, as quickly as I may.”

Delae bowed her head against his chest.

Chapter Nine

It would be three months later before Dorovan could come again. Spring was in the air, the breezes had warmed and yet through their bond Delae knew he was coming and she came to meet him, walking through the long grasses and the early spring flowers.

She looked beautiful, her brilliant hair streaming in the breeze and he watched her face glow as she caught sight of him. Her feet were bare, as always. He smiled to see them. There was a picnic basket in her hand.

As selfish as it was, Dorovan couldn’t help being glad no other of men could love her and so he had this to himself. Had she had a true love, a soul-bond other than him, he would still have been her friend-of-the-heart but without this deep joy.

He knew she loved him - deeply and truly - but she didn’t pain for the day he might find his soul-bond, even knowing it would end this that they shared between them. She loved him enough to wish it for him, to see him happy. Parted as they must be, their love forbidden, if this was all they could have, then it would enough and more than enough.

It was risk enough to come here, an Elf alone. There were some of men who would kill him just to see him. Millennia of war between their two races carried its scars and its hatreds, although it hadn’t been his people who started those wars.

There was also this, his was the longer-lived race and so he wouldn’t age as quickly as she. Delae burned so brightly but she would burn so very briefly compared to him, while he would live on long after she was gone. He hated to think it, to consider a world without bright Delae in it.

Without needing to think about it, Dorovan reached an arm down to swing her up onto the saddle before him as her mouth lifted to his for a kiss, the picnic basket across her thighs.

Delae looked at him. “I have a thing to show you. A place.”

“All right,” he said, a little mystified, but looking in her eyes to see he saw the light of mischief there.

“Will Charis mind if I guide him?”

“The reins are yours,” Dorovan said, content simply to be in her presence.

She had a quiet soul, full of warmth and energy, but content with her place, her life.

The deep woods that nearly surrounded her homestead closed around them, close and secret, so like Talaena and all the other Enclaves it was almost like home, save there were no Veils, no verandas, no homes and walkways among the trees.

Here only the birds moved among the tree tops, not his people.

Dorovan knew the great Gorge wasn’t so far away, but far enough.

Then the trees parted to reveal a little glade brilliant with sunlight and spangled with the little white flowers that grew in neat circles that men called Fairy rings. Such flowers grew over the graves of Elves who’d died in truth, who hadn’t passed on to the Summerlands.

Not here, though, here was just a place of warmth and beauty, of flowers and sunlight, bright green mosses and the thick green grasses.

It stood on a little rise. Through a break in the trees they could see Delae’s homestead in the near distance, framed by the hills around it.

Here in this little glade, though, the sun was warm and there was no one but themselves.

He felt an odd sense of familiarity with this place. For a moment, Dorovan went still. He’d seen this place before…then he smiled as it came to him.

“The tapestry?”

She nodded. “I know you’ve worried about my people seeing you come here or someone spotting you by chance. But we can meet here safely and I can still watch over my people.”

It had been a concern, a risk he was willing to take to see her but it was better without it. With a laugh Dorovan caught her up in his arms, wrapping them around her hips to lift her into the air with a smile.

Here he didn’t have to worry about betraying himself or his people and they could share their pleasure in each other freely. In the wintertime, closed in by the snows, there was less concern…

Although he could only stay a short while, it was enough.

The sudden sense of pain was shocking, surprising and yet oddly not alarming. What Dorovan sensed through their friend-of-the-heart bond from Delae was joy. It was puzzling and a shock to realize it had been six months or more as men measured such things since he’d seen her last. Summer waned and fall was nearly upon them. It was so easy to forget how brief their time together might be when you lived so long, especially when she was so much a part of his heart, so he knew her joys and sorrows, as now.

Suddenly the need to see her was sharp, intense. He missed her deeply.

It might not be a soul-bond but it still brought them both much joy.

Charis waited, his ears pricked, eager to be on their way, not just racing around the vale with the other horses. Like Dorovan himself, the horse had a restless soul.

Dorovan could sense Delae long before he saw her as he and Charis picked their way through the trees of the forest, already anticipating the time to be spent with her.

The last time they’d talked of many things, eaten what Delae had brought in the picnic basket, made love on the sweet grass and simply basked with each other in the sunlight. It had eased the longing and the loneliness for them both.

He stepped into the glade to find her sitting there, her glorious hair tumbling around her shoulders, so brilliant in the sunlight.

There was something different about her, a glow, and then he stepped closer.

For a moment his heart both lifted and stopped, looking at what she held in her arms. A part of him longed for what he saw even as another part feared.

Clearly, seeing the look in her eyes, he wasn’t alone in that.

Delae looked up at Dorovan and her own heart caught to see him.

“Her name is Selah,” she said, softly.

Amazed, Dorovan reached out to touch the baby’s soft cheek, the downy hair. She was beautiful, perfect, with her pretty little pursed mouth.

There was no sign of Elven ears.

Her eyes uncertain, unsure, Delae said, in answer to the question he couldn’t ask, “I don’t know.”

As much as she wished the baby to have been Dorovan’s, there had been Kort that one night…and Elves weren’t a fertile race. It was unlikely.

Dorovan looked at the wonder that was the child. Among his people any child was a gift and a joy.

“It doesn’t matter, Delae. For us or for her. My people have so few children we would welcome another if she proves to be of my race.”

Some would be concerned but if Selah were Elven she would be taken into Talaena when she was old enough. It might be awkward but he was Elf, it was the way of his people.

“Mine or not,” Dorovan said, “she is yours and for that alone I love her.”

Something inside Delae eased and she closed her eyes with relief.

Touching her cheek, Dorovan said, “Will you never learn? You are loved, Delae. And she is, too. Can I hold her?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

With the wide-eyed wonder of all babies, Selah looked up at him, her arms and legs kicking as he held her.

Children were such a joy to his folk - so rare, so precious.

For a time they simply played with the baby and talked before Delae put her to her breast to feed.

That, too, was a wonder, the simple magic of mother and child together.

Lifting her eyes, Delae met Dorovan’s gaze and they shared the pleasure, Dorovan brushing her hair back, feeling the connection through the bond they shared.

They made love while the baby slept.

Kort returned only briefly to see the child but he did so only at sword point, Delae adamant. She wouldn’t let that drunken reprobate touch her baby, however much she might be his, too. Dorovan had given her more lessons. Never again would she be forced against her will to anything. She would defend her home and family to the death.

As the years passed it never became possible to tell if Selah was Elven or not. She gave no sign of it although she was an unusually healthy baby and child. Her ears were shaped a little differently but not with the distinctive Elven points. There was no sign of the magic with which Elves were born. In every way she was her mother’s daughter, save her hair was straighter and darker and her eyes were as brown as a doe’s, as Delae’s mother’s had been. She would be taller than her mother but Kort was tall. In the shape of her face, though, the set of her eyes, her mouth, she was Delae’s.

To Kort’s disgust.

Dorovan was more father to Selah than Kort ever was, whether in body or presence.

If she was Elven, they wouldn’t know it for years as she failed to age as men did. The only other sign was her gift for working with plants and herbs as his folk did, but some men had a touch of that gift as well. She had no hand with a sword nor did she desire one.

Delae loved watching them together, Selah with her head slightly bent, her brown eyes turned up to look at Dorovan.

After a time, they simply forgot to think about it, Dorovan loved sweet quiet Selah as if she were his own, for herself, and she loved him as well with her gentle warmth. Many was the time they would work together side by side among the herbs she’d grown, Dorovan instructing her in the uses of them. Or the three of them would sit in the sun, Selah having inherited her mother’s skill with a needle, Delae talking of the changes in the homestead or Dorovan of what went on in the wider world.

Delae aged but as far as Dorovan was concerned she only became more refined as silver threaded through the fire of her beautiful hair.

Chapter Ten

Word of the Progress had been sent around to all the homesteaders - a celebration of Geric’s coming of age, of his naming as Heir to the Kingdom of Riverford and Delae’s holding wasn’t to be neglected. She’d done well over the years.

The courtyard was abustle with the preparations. Baskets of flowers hung from the posts of the archways of the east and west wings.

Delae had had Kort’s rooms cleared and prepared for the arrival of the King and Queen, the guest chamber for the newly named Heir.

Word had come only the year before that Kort had been found dead in an alley. Oddly some part of Delae grieved for him… more for the fact and manner of his death. She actually mourned for Kort himself very little and grieved because she felt so little for his passing. Any more than she’d grieved at the loss of his parents. She’d wept more and harder when Petra had died and then Hallis had followed her shortly after.

The homestead seemed far emptier for the loss of those two than it did for the loss of those whose blood had once owned it.

Even so, she never slept in Kort’s rooms and never would.

Sighing, she put those thoughts aside, smiling as she watched Selah gently instruct sweet Lucie and Lucie’s daughter Keran in the preparations.

The great room had been swept clean of every grain of the old rushes, the wood floor had been washed, oiled and new rushes put down over it before the precious carpets had been restored to their proper places. All the shutters were open to allow fresh air inside, the light falling brilliantly over the chairs Delae had made, each seat cushion carefully decorated in her own tapestry.

All of the bedrooms and bed linens had been aired and freshened - the straw ticking replaced and the straps on the beds tightened.

Tables had been set out under the trees of the courtyard for feasting in the open - in the air and sun. A great pit had been dug, a side of beef and another of mutton roasted over a fire. There were platters of roasted vegetables and all manner of delicacies.

Delae looked over it all with satisfaction.

Out in the fields horses and cattle roamed with the sheep, cropping the rich green grass. The homestead had become much more prosperous, more settled as the years passed.

She shook then smoothed out her skirts.

“They’re coming,” Morlis’s son Alen called, racing in through the gates.

Selah stepped to her side and Delae threaded her fingers through those of her daughter’s, feeling Selah’s other hand close over hers.

It always astonished Delae that now she had to look up into Selah’s eyes.

More, how truly lovely she was.

There was only a trace of red in Selah’s rich brown hair and hers waved more than it curled, but it was lovely. Slender and less curved than Delae, she was graceful and beautiful in her serene and quiet way. Delae well knew she was a doting mother but she didn’t think she was deceived in this.

She raised her daughter’s hand to her lips and kissed it as Selah’s shoulder brushed hers in return.

Pride washed through her as her people took up their places, Dan at his forge, Morlis and Alen waiting to hold the horses. Lucie and Keran were there, with Bara, Morlis’s wife, at their back. Some of the smallholders were scattered around the courtyard. It made a pretty and welcoming picture.

The King and Queen rode in with their son Geric at their side and they made a pretty picture as well.

Hastan had always been a big and comely man, nearly as broad as a Dwarf, but he’d also been a very fair man, if occasionally too strong-willed and independent for the prospective High King, Daran. That was to be expected from Riverford, though. It had always been an independent-minded Kingdom, if not so much so as Marakis.

His close-cropped hair curled just slightly around his head and his strongly-boned face. It was easy to see why Telerach had fallen in love with him but more so for the look in his eyes when he reached a hand to his Lady-wife as they rode between the gates.

As it was easy to see why he’d fallen in love with her.

There was a merry warmth to Telerach that reached out to touch everyone around her. While not quite as curly as Delae’s, Telerach’s honey-colored hair tumbled nearly to her waist, framing an apple-cheeked face that was more pretty than beautiful but the kindness in it shone.

The love between King and Queen was clear and deep.

No other hand but the King’s would lift his Queen down from her saddle and Delae felt a small gush of sorrow for what she would never truly know. Then she put it aside as Hastan gestured for his son to join them.

Geric was a pleasant mix of both his parents, his father’s strong features softened a little by his mother’s gentler ones, with his mother’s slate-colored eyes and her hair. He was as tall as his father, and as broad through the shoulders and chest. He was a handsome young man.

Both Delae and Selah sank into small curtseys before the King and Queen.

“Your Highnesses,” Delae said, “I am Delae, widow of Kort, and landowner here.”

“Mistress Delae,” Hastan said, for he couldn’t name her Lady because of her common birth, “we would present our son, Geric, who would be our Heir.”

Delae gestured Selah up.

“And my daughter Selah…”

Turning her head, she caught Geric’s expression as Selah rose, his slate-blue eyes startled as Selah looked up at him, her own eyes widening.

Wisely, Delae made no mention of it, merely smiling graciously. “Your rooms await, your Highnesses. Baths too so you may refresh yourselves.”

There was food aplenty, Hastan noticed as they sat at table in the courtyard, cloth wound through the arbor to provide shade and cover.

Once this had been one of his poorest landholds, ever and always on the edge of poverty.  They’d never failed to pay their rightful taxes and tithes although it stretched them as some years they’d paid in kind rather than coin. That had clearly changed.

There had been rumors, of course, and tales, but Delae had never complained of them herself, always gracious far beyond her station.

Now, though, now it was one of his most prosperous, a jewel in the crown of his landholdings.

He looked out at the verdant fields, at the livestock grazing there, at the vines - thick with grapes - that twined above his head, the barrels of mead, wine and beer and could find no fault.

Nor, he thought, could he find fault with anything other.

Smothering a smile, he watched Geric as he spoke in a corner of the courtyard with pretty young Selah, her head bowed gracefully; a shy smile curved her lips.

Hastan glanced at his own beloved Telerach and caught her glance as it met his.

A tremor went through him, a shiver of warmth that was the bond between them. Few of her people understood their love, not knowing that Telerach named it a true soul-bond. All he knew was that he couldn’t live without her. He raised her fingers to his lips and she smiled, all the warmth and love he could want there in her eyes.

She nodded and then glanced over at their son, too.

Hastan sighed.

It had been difficult to find him a bride among those of the other lesser Kingdoms, as much for his mother’s blood as for Riverford’s location among the outermost of the lesser Kingdoms. Many were offended by the idea he had the blood of Dwarves in his veins, as if there was something to be ashamed of in being a part of that long-lived and strong race.

To some extent Telerach’s people felt the same about men.

In the end, then, they’d had only each other. And then Geric.

Softly, Telerach said, a smile beginning to light her eyes, “It will be a good match.”

And so Delae found herself guesting and being guested by the Heir to Riverford now and again.

From a distance, Dorovan watched Selah marry the only son and Heir to the King of Riverford, having watched the love grow between them in the same way as he did now, with his arms around Delae’s shoulders as she leaned back against him. The two of them stood unseen in their copse within the trees while Geric and Selah rode together across the fields.

Daran was now High King of all men. He and the Elf Elon of Aerilann had forged an Agreement that made peace at last between Men, Elves and Dwarves. It was easier now for Dorovan to travel as fewer remarked on it, although he still had to be careful. Not all men were reconciled to parity with the long-lived Elves - who they thought of as arrogant and cold - or the Dwarves - who they considered stolid and stupid.

“So,” Delae asked, shortly after the Agreement was signed, her head in Dorovan’s lap, “Elon of Aerilann is First among equals, like a lesser King among your people?”

Amused, Dorovan nodded as he played with her hair as he was wont to do. He loved the living feel of it, the way it curled around his fingers.

“Of a sort, yes.”

Waving it away, she said with an answering smile, “Less formal, yes, yes, I know. And he is a master swordsman but you are a Swordmaster.”

He nodded.

“I am good - Elon is better,” he said equably, but searched for a better explanation. “Elon teaches the teachers.”

“Ah,” Delae said, then shook her head. “But this means it will be easier for you to come here?”

“Fewer will take note of it,” he said, lowering his lips to her forehead. “We’ll still have to be careful.”

She was still and always would be a balm to his soul.

Then suddenly she shot up to look at him. “Dorovan, I almost forgot to tell you, Selah is pregnant!”

Children and grandchildren and still most people of men took them for granted.

He didn’t. Excitement rushed through him.

“When is she due?” he asked.

“In the deep of summer,” Delae said, smiling. “Geric is thrilled and Selah simply glows.”

To Dorovan’s pleasure, Selah came for a visit and let her beloved friend Dorovan touch her swelling belly, her sweet gentle face full of love and wonder. He held his hand against her and felt the baby kick as he looked at Selah.

She smiled, radiantly.

Chapter Eleven

It was a dark and stormy night, much as the night when Delae had first met Dorovan, if not as cold, when Delae was sure, when she knew, watching the bright lights that danced in the air above the baby’s crib. Desperately she locked her feelings down, heartsick and terrified, hoping and praying Dorovan didn’t sense her fear, her heartbreak. She couldn’t tell him - not even him. This would be the only secret she’d ever kept from him and the only one she ever would. He must never know what she knew now.

Then, if they asked him, he wouldn’t be forced to betray himself and them…and this precious beautiful child.

If what they did worked, he would never need to and the baby would be safe, they would all be safe.

Still, she wept, alone for the first time since before Selah had been born as she touched the baby’s tender cheek. So beautiful.

As much as it grieved her, Dorovan must never learn what they now knew for certain, that Selah was indeed his daughter and her child his granddaughter.

No one must know of the baby’s mixed blood. No one could know she bore in her veins not just her father Geric’s mixed blood but her mother Selah’s. That she had the forbidden blood of all three races in her tiny veins.

That she had magic.

That she was Otherling.

Dorovan wouldn’t betray her, Delae knew. But she wouldn’t have him suffer this fear as she did. Knowing what this child might be, what it meant and would mean to his people, to the Dwarves, who, as much as they loved children and had welcomed Geric, would kill this baby out of hand just for what she was. She couldn’t do that to Dorovan, to make him keep this secret against his own people.

Even the Elves, as much as they loved children, would be torn…

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she prayed that what they planned would work. No one must ever know that the baby had magic such as Elves and Dwarves did.

It had been another long cold winter, with a storm on the horizon when Dorovan rode into the compound of Delae’s homestead. In the way of men, Hallis and Petra had long passed to their Summerlands such as men had, as had Kort’s parents and Delae had taken on Dan and Morlis’s wives in their place. All were well accustomed to seeing him there but none ever spoke of it to anyone outside the homestead, not that they saw many others on this distant edge of the Kingdom.

He knew Delae was on her way back to the homestead to meet him from a ride out to check on the smallholders.

Over the years she’d become much more successful, especially once Kort had died - knifed in an alley over a gambling debt. Elf that he was, Dorovan still found it hard to grieve much for that one.

With a nod Morlis’s oldest boy came to take Charis, his eyes glinting with delight as the Elven-bred horse followed him to the stable, eager for his ration of oats.

Dorovan smiled before turning toward the great room, so familiar to him after all these years that it was nearly a second home, anticipating Delae’s arrival with a lightening of his spirit.

Pulling off his cloak, Dorovan shook the rain out and spread it over the rack by the fire, turning in surprise at the sound of the rapid patter of bare feet as they raced down the hall from the kitchens toward him.

A child burst into the room.

“Delae!” she said and then came to a sudden halt as she saw him standing there instead. “Surprise…!”

The owner of the bare feet was a small bundle of energy of about seven full seasons, her blue-gray eyes lighting up with delight and curiosity at the sight of him.

There was a hint of her grandmother in the shape of those eyes, in the glints of red in her bouncing chestnut curls and in the bright wonder in her face. More of it in the fact that they obviously couldn’t keep shoes on her. Dorovan allowed himself a small smile as she tilted her head to look at him.

“You’re an Elf,” she said, wisely. “You’re a secret. I’m not supposed to tell.”

With a chuckle and a nod, he said, “Yes, yes and yes.”

Her gaze went to his shoulder. He still wore his harness and his swords; he’d been in the process of taking them off.

“You have swords.”

“I do,” he said, watching her as he shrugged them off his shoulders.

Tilting her head at him, those big steel blue eyes wide, twisting on one foot, she said, “Can I touch one?”

“Just one?”

She looked at him gravely. “The long one would be too heavy.”

“It would. I’m Dorovan,” he said, already enraptured. He’d seen her before of course, when she’d been little more than a baby but not recently. “And you would be Ailith.”

It meant ‘light’ in the old tongue and she was a light that was certain.

Sweet Selah’s daughter.

This one wasn’t quiet, like her gentle mother - she had the warmth, fire and energy of her grandmother.

Her eyes studied him and then she smiled. “Yes.”

Drawing his short sword he held it out to her, watched her take it in her small hands, the weight of it heavy.

“You teach people to use a sword?” she asked.

He nodded.

Looking at him with her head tilted, she said, “Would you teach me?”

She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t wish it, he understood this.

Dorovan’s eyebrows lifted, as did his heart. She was a charmer - this one - full of curiosity and mischief.

“Fetch the fireplace poker,” he said. “And we’ll see if the sword is for you.”

She ran over, ran back with it and before he asked, took it in a two-handed grip without being told.

Dorovan was delighted.

“You’ve been watching,” he said. Probably the guards and the Hunters at the castle.

Nodding sharply, she said, “Yes.”

It was clearly her favorite answer. There were no doubts, no fears in this one, she wanted to try everything, do everything.

Carefully, he adjusted her stance a little. “Like so.”

Being careful not to move out of it, she looked around then shifted her little body to get the feel of it before her blue eyes lifted to his and she nodded - her smile brilliant as she understood.

Delae walked in the door and her heart caught with both wonder and love at the sight, her throat tight as she watched them together. She’d known with that empathy they shared that Dorovan had been completely engrossed, enthralled, but at what she hadn’t known, nor that Ailith had arrived.  That last had obviously been meant as a surprise and everyone had kept it.

There was that about Ailith that folk did such things.

Now she watched them, young Ailith a perfect mirror to Dorovan as he walked her through the movements of what he called the ‘forms’, as he’d taught Delae herself all those years ago.

For a moment her eyes burned, before she leaned a shoulder against the door to just watch them in silence. If there was grief in her for what she couldn’t tell Dorovan, she buried it deep beneath the joy, the pleasure of watching them together, child and Elf. His granddaughter.

Whatever else, that child was the best of all of them. She could see touches of herself and Telerach in her, in the glints of red and gold in Ailith’s chestnut hair, of them and Dorovan in the color of her eyes and now, mirroring his movements, Dorovan’s grace, his strength and her father, Geric’s. There was a stillness to her, too, that Selah must have inherited by way of Dorovan and passed down to her daughter.

Ailith became aware of her first and came running, putting the fireplace poker carefully aside first, to Dorovan’s approving nod. “Delae! Look who I found!”

It was so like Ailith, as if she’d discovered an unknown country all by herself.

“I see you’ve met, again,” Delae said, her gaze lifting to meet Dorovan’s, her friend of the heart.

As always, she saw the love there and if it wasn’t the depth of the soul-bond he sought, she could give him this much, everything she had. Including this. It seemed to be enough.

It was enough and more than enough for her.

“He’s teaching me how to use a sword,” Ailith said, excitedly - her little face aglow.

“I saw,” she said. “You couldn’t have a better teacher. He taught me.”

Coming up to her, Dorovan slid an arm around her. “She’s a natural, Delae.”

She gave him a look askance and then Ailith, seeing the question in both their eyes. “Yes, you can keep teaching her but Ailith it must be a secret. Promise me you won’t tell your parents.”

“I know, Delae,” Ailith said, almost in disgust, then she grinned and tried to hug them both.

It was a wonder to him. Curled up in bed around Delae, drawing his beloved friend-of-the-heart into his arms, Dorovan said, in astonishment, “I’ve never had a student as gifted.”

It was his second year teaching Ailith and he was finding more reasons to visit than just to see his beloved Delae, as much as his friend-of-the-heart eased his soul and delighted him. There was Ailith, now, too, her joy and her wonder, her passion and curiosity, her intensity. Her focus. At first he’d been enchanted and charmed but love had come almost instantly on their heels, just to see the expression in Ailith’s quick, intelligent eyes, the brightness she’d inherited from Delae.

A little surprised, Delae looked at him. “But you teach Elves.”

“I know,” he said, “but even among my folk, there are those who simply have the talent. I was one, but Ailith…she’ll be much more.”

His eyes went distant.

“For her blood,” he said, in stunned astonishment, “she could be a Master Swordsman.”

So few men truly cared to learn the sword, counting on their numbers more than skill. It was skill, though, that had saved Dorovan’s race.

Just at the thought, at the responsibility of it, his breath caught.

“Like Elon of Aerilann?” Delae asked, startled.

Slowly, he nodded. “Like him. Like his true-friend, Colath.”

Bright shadow to Elon of Aerilann’s dark, with Colath at his side the two elves were legendary for their sword work, Delae knew. Dorovan had mentioned Elon before. Now as advisor to the High King, the new Council and teamed with the human wizard Jareth, they were a force to be reckoned with.

“That good?” Delae said, a little awed.

He nodded.

Slowly he rolled her over onto her back. Even now with silver threaded thickly through the rich fire of her hair, she was lovely to his eyes, he thought as he pierced her. Her eyes and her smile widened as she sighed with pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him as he pressed deep into her.

“I love the feel of you, Delae,” he breathed, stroking into her, shifting his hips to feel every inch.

“Do you?” she whispered, her body shifting to take him.

She wasn’t questioning, wasn’t searching for validation - she simply echoed the emotion in him. She smiled as she always did when he filled her, her body arching as pleasure rushed through her as his own ecstasy emptied into her.

“I love this,” she sighed, trembling.

As did he. She was a delight and a joy to him.

Steel clashed and rang through the forest, the sound oddly musical, especially when done this way, moving from the forms to sparring. It was pure pleasure for Dorovan to do this with Ailith, especially to watch the laughter in her eyes, to see the delight she took in the movement of sword against sword. She had grown, and not just in age, but in skills. It was such a pleasure to watch.

“Watch,” Dorovan cautioned in Elvish and she rolled her eyes, not in consternation, but at herself.

“Forgot,” she said, in the same tongue. “I don’t get to spar with anyone the likes of you much, Dorovan.”

“Hmmm,” he said, amused. “It’s a problem. Don’t get careless Ailith. Ah and your grandmother told me to tell you that you’d best come up to visit her, too.”

There was a hesitation in Ailith’s next stroke that was uncommon in her.

“Speak,” he said, fairly certain he knew what it was that troubled her, “there is nothing you cannot ask me, Ailith.”

“You love Delae,” she said.

He nodded. “More than my life.”

It was no more than the truth, if it came to that.

A breath went out of her. “But it’s not a soul-bond.”

“No,” he said, stepping back and away.

It was too serious a discussion for sparring.

“If I could have that with Delae, I would,” he said with a sigh, “but I can’t.”

He did wish it.

With a nod, Ailith put up her sword, too, to come sit beside him on the rock.

“Because she’s not Elf?”

Dorovan took a breath and shook his head. “No. I can’t explain it. I know what I have with Delae is a true bond, just not a soul-bond although I love her deeply. So it’s not that. With a soul-bond, it’s…different… In what way I don’t know, as I haven’t found mine, it just isn’t. But know this, I love Delae deeply and her company stands in place of that bond.”

“I know,” Ailith said, clearly more at ease.

“And I love you too, little one,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead in a rare show of affection.

She was growing so fast, as all children did, Elf or man. In a way, it pained him. He wished to keep her young, keep her safe. It would be hard to watch her grow old and die as he watched Delae age.

“Thanks, Dorovan,” she said, “I love you, too.”

“I know,” he said, mimicking her tone.

She smiled.

“Forms?” he said and she jumped down from the stone.

They took up position side by side, moving nearly as one, smoothly, from guard to attack, from parry to thrust, in the rhythm of the forms.

Chapter Twelve

Riding to Delae’s homestead, Dorovan had felt an odd…presentiment…a shadow of sorts. Although some Elves had stronger magic, Dorovan knew he had only such as all Elves were born with, the strength and resilience of his body, the empathy of their race, the ability to create Elven lights in the darkness, and a trace of Healing. His own truest magic was in his skill with his swords, in his ability to pass those skills on to others. Like Ailith.

He had no ability to foresee…and yet…

Now he delighted in Delae’s body, in the pleasure she took from him and what he took from her, in her quick responsiveness, in the way her body trembled and quivered. He loved the taste and the feel of her.

The feel of his long silky hair brushing over her stomach as his mouth did wonderful things to her drove all thought from Delae’s mind as heat built within her and her breath came short. Her body went limp, twitching helplessly at the touch of his tongue, his warm mouth on her.

Her hands fell away as her body quivered.

Dorovan surged up, impaling her on him and she cried out, locking around him as she trembled wildly, her body closing around him, stroking him. With a cry of his own he poured into her, shuddering, his body rigid as he emptied himself into her.

It had been true when Ailith had asked it and it was true now. If he could have had a soul-bond with Delae, no matter what race she was, he would have.

Curling around her, he drew her body close to his. So precious to him, this life.

“Ailith is troubled,” Delae said.

Nodding, worried himself, Dorovan said, “You are, too.”

“There’s a darkness…” Delae said.

Startled, he rose on an elbow to look down at her. “Yes. You feel it, too?”

“It’s growing,” she said and shivered.

Dorovan nodded, pulling her close, wishing he could protect her - could protect all of them from what was coming.

“I think even Geric senses it, he’s been acting very strange lately,” she said, curling into the warmth of Dorovan’s long, strong body, running her hands over the muscles of his chest.

Dorovan cradled her against him, wishing he could bring her with him to Talaena where she would be safer, but he couldn’t.

“I gave Ailith the swords,” he said and smiled. “I wish you could have seen her face, Delae.”

The timing had just been wrong, Delae unable to return to the homestead before Ailith had to leave.

Knowing Ailith had the swords was an ease to Delae’s fears. And to her heart.

Named swords.

Rare even among the Elves, as close to unbreakable as Elven magic could make them, they were made with Elven steel, on an Elven forge with Elven magic, usually by the teacher for the student - for an exceptional student and keyed to  student and  student alone. To be wielded only by them.

Dorovan had told Delae what he intended to do. It was dangerous in a way for him to forge them, dangerous too in giving Ailith Named swords - swords that were bound only to her, forged by him with his own hands - but Dorovan had felt driven to do it, as was true with all Named swords.

Perhaps this had been why.

With a sigh, Delae smiled and said, “I wish I could too but I’m sure she’ll show them to me when I see her next.”

Not that Dorovan hadn’t shown her the swords already, both long and short - and they’d been incredible pieces of art, steel become sculpture and weaponry, beautiful and deadly - but that hadn’t been the point.

They’d both felt strongly that now was the time to give them to Ailith. Whatever was coming, they wanted to give Ailith the best chance they could to survive.

Worriedly, restless and heartsick, Dorovan drew Delae close, holding her tightly.

The Alliance and the Agreement had brought them peace for a time, but something loomed over all of them.

Chapter Thirteen

The pounding on the door to the homestead in the night reminded Delae dimly of a fateful night so long before. The night she’d met Dorovan for the first time. She scrambled from her bed, still caught up in the dream-memory as she threw on her robe before running down the hall in her bare feet.

She could almost hear Dorovan chiding from behind her, although he wasn’t there. “Put your shoes on, Delae.”

Her lips curved in half a smile at the memory.

A familiar voice, muffled by the door, with panic and fear running just beneath the calm, cried, “Delae. Wake up. Delae. Hurry.”

Ailith?

Snatching up a lantern, Delae lit it from a twig in the fire and hurried to the door.

“Delae,” the voice shouted. “It’s Ailith. Hurry.”

Ailith? At this hour? And with fear in her voice? What in the world?

Delae wrenched the door opened, to see her granddaughter’s pale face there.

“Ailith,” Delae said, bewildered and half awake as Ailith darted inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Get dressed, Delae,” Ailith begged. “Hurry, there’s no time. I’ll explain as you dress. Quickly, please.”

The urgency and fear got through as Delae looked at her granddaughter’s frightened face and nodded. She hurried into her bedroom, Ailith at her heels.

In that moment Delae knew that the time they’d feared had come.

Darkness was just settling over the Enclave as Dorovan rode into it, the magic of the Veil a soft familiar brush of warmth over his skin, the trees closing around him welcomingly. A sense of urgency had drawn him from Delae’s homestead. To his astonishment, he found every elf-light in the Enclave lit as if all the stars of the sky had been trapped within the Vale. Although there was no clamor, there was a sense of tension riding the empathy, threaded with alarm and concern.

The relief in the First’s voice as Dorovan reached the center of the Enclave was clear.

“Dorovan, you’ve returned! Can you ride out with the Hunters?”

“Of course. What’s happened?” he demanded.

The First shook his head. “None of us have seen anything like it. Salamanders and ogres have come out of the mountains, the Hunters are hard pressed, and we need every sword we can find. Half the upper mountain is ablaze. And you know how many it takes to take an ogre.”

“Are there supplies already among those in the east?”

The First nodded. “Yes.”

Dorovan turned Charis’s head east and leaned into him.

To his shock, it was far worse than what he’d sensed through the empathy. In all his years, not since his childhood during the wizard wars had he seen anything like it. He’d never seen so many ogres. The Hunters took turns racing past them, firing arrows into the massive creatures, while others dodged the fiery breath and whirling eyes of the lizard-like salamanders.

By the time they’d either killed the creatures or driven them off, he’d been exhausted and tumbled into his bedroll.

The rest he sought eluded him. It was a restless terrible night, fraught with pain. The dream sucked at him, drew him down into darkness. It was terrible, that dream, murky and thick, shot through with nightmare images of terrible creatures such as he’d fought that day.

It wasn’t a dream. He felt Delae call and reached for her, closed his arms around her in the dream as horrific images battered at him, as she fought her fear and terror alone, fought for the ones she loved. And for him.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. It was a prayer. She’d been alone for so long.

“No,” he swore, “never.”

If he’d had magic enough he’d have willed himself there to her or willed her to him, to where she would be safe.

Let go, she thought…

In that last moment he could See it - Delae mounted on her horse at the edge of the precipice, her chin lifting as her brilliant hair, streaked with silver, flagged in the breeze. The first light of dawn touched it, turned it to flame one last time.

There was no chance he could reach her in time. None. His heart cried out.

Let go…the thought whispered through him.

No, Delae.

I love you, but I must…

To save them all, to save Ailith, she must. Dorovan knew it, sensed the truth of it run through her.

And so he did.

And so she did, consigning herself to the void. He felt her fall, her hair streaming like a comet around her as she released her terrified horse. It bolted away from the terrible creatures that stood before it and they tumbled into the darkness…

His heart reached for her, sent the words. I love you, Delae.

A mental caress. I love you, too, Dorovan.

It broke his heart.

He felt the impact. Pain exploded through him, drove him up out of sleep, sent him to his knees in the darkness by his bedroll, his hand clutched to his chest. With the shattering of her body, the bond between them shattered, too. He felt her die, felt her spirit take wing, in search of the Summerlands. He bowed over the pain. Friend-of-my-heart. He lost a piece of his own that night and there was no one he could tell.

Delae.

She was gone. Forever.

And he hadn’t been able to help her. Couldn’t save her.

What had happened?

With the bond between them broken, he feared he might never know.

She’d always been so brave…and she had been still…to the very end.

Chapter Fourteen

Time, Dorovan found, didn’t ease the pain of losing a bond, any bond. Delae. Gone she might be - his visits to her and her homestead at an end but he still talked to her, to Delae, feeling her bright spirit alive around him. He knew she’d moved on, passed into the Summerlands but still he talked to her. After so long with her, he didn’t know how to be without her. The bond was broken and there was an emptiness where she once had been.

The loneliness was nearly crushing. Having not felt it for so long and then having it return was nearly more than he could bear.

Especially in these days.

They were beset. Every Enclave faced creatures from the borderland in such numbers as no one could in memory recall ever having faced before.

He rode to exhaustion and fought the same way.

So, he talked to her in his thoughts.

There were those in the Enclave who sensed through the empathy that he was in pain and tried to ease it but he could speak to none of them. There would be too many questions. Some wouldn’t understand - he couldn’t tell them he’d loved her, had loved Delae, one of the race of men. That she’d been a friend-of-his-heart, a true bond and he’d lost her.

In the darkest hours, sometimes though - there is occasionally a light. Her name was Marantha, a Hunter from Alatheriann come to aid them. Something about her lightened him and eased his heart, something that called to him, although he resisted it until one night he dreamed.

Delae looked at him with exasperation and love. “Isn’t this what you waited for so long? Would you deny yourself what you gave me, all those years? This is what I wished for you. I love you, I will always love you. But she will love you, Dorovan, always, as I could not and cannot. Go to her, Dorovan. Go on…”

Pain, grief and sorrow pierced him sharply, the loneliness nearly unbearable. The dream shook him out of sleep, drew him to his feet and sent him questing.

He found Marantha by one of the pools, clearly as unable to sleep as he. She turned to look at him.

In the way of their people she was beautiful to him, her spirit warm. Her hair, as dark and as glossy as a raven’s wing, ran as straight as a waterfall down her back and shoulders. Her eyes were large and beautiful, as green as new leaves, her skin tawny.  She was tall, nearly of a height with him. She could lay her head on his shoulder.

“There is no one else I have spoken to of this but I had a friend-of-my-heart,” Dorovan said abruptly, without preamble. “She was a woman of men. I have never known anyone with so much courage. I lost her.”

If Marantha was his soul-bond, she would understand.

“How long?” Marantha asked, feeling the open wound within him, holding out her hand.

The grief in his eyes tore at her, the pain in him so deep. His words surprised her and the content more, but that loss explained so much.

“Months,” he said, “as men measure it.”

Shocked, pained, she whispered, “Oh, Dorovan.”

That was too long for any to bear such pain alone.

He looked into her emerald eyes as their hands touched, heard the words Marantha offered him and knew this time he could say them. He could speak the truth.

“Tell me,” Marantha said.

And so he did. He told her of Delae, of her fierce courage, of her bright spirit, of her deep and abiding love, of sweet Selah and of Ailith.

When he was finished he looked at her, emptied, and felt his heart at ease for the first time in what seemed an age.

“I hadn’t magic enough to save her,” he said, “there should have been some way.”

Marantha’s fingers slipped between his, in the way of their people, to share his grief and sorrow, to give ease - as Delae had done once long ago, all unknowing. Marantha’s eyes were luminous in the darkness.

In wonder, he reached out to touch her face, seeing strength in her eyes, purpose, joy and more than a touch of courage - to have not fled in the face of what he’d said. He’d loved a woman of man…in the face of all the proscriptions against it. Somewhere in the Summerlands, he knew Delae watched. Her courage had carried to her granddaughter…and that child was the stuff of which legends would be made.

Marantha looked at him. “Come,” she said, gently.

He went.

Drawing him into the shadows, she looked up at him and in that moment, he knew. Delae had told him true. This was the one he’d been waiting for, his soul-bond, the one who would love him in the face of everything.

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to Marantha’s. This time the joining wasn’t smooth and gentle, it was fierce, wild. It lifted him up and filled all the spaces that had been empty until he was no longer alone, nor was Marantha, but they were joined as one. His heart opened and his spirit found the mirror to it… A true soul-bond. He discovered a joy to match what Delae had given him, soothing his spirit.

Delae, who had loved him as long as she could. Her warmth surrounded him and then released him, her joy at his bond clear.

Dorovan let her go and he heard her laughter ring as he took Marantha to him.

Marantha, the other part of his soul, who would love him, always, throughout all the long years.

There was magic enough for this.

Setting Boundaries

A novella, part of the Otherling Series

By

Valerie Douglas

Published by the author as a member of the

Alexandria Publishing Group

Setting Boundaries Copyright © 2010 Valerie Douglas

Cover art by V. J. Douglas

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from author.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Discover other titles by Valerie Douglas

Fantasy

The Coming Storm Series

The Coming Storm

A Convocation of Kings

Not Magic Enough

Heart of the Gods

Song of the Fairy Queen

Suspense

The Last Resort

Romance

Dirty Politics

Directors Cut

Irish Fling

Two Up

Dedication

To Mr. Cross, the inspiration for Daran High King, and all those who inspire writers to continue writing. My thanks.

Chapter One

Jareth hurried up the cobbled street - the long skirts of his formal robes hampering his long strides. It probably would have helped if he hadn’t put on his rough wool working trews beneath them but it seemed best to be prepared in case they wanted to leave right away. Elves were rarely unprepared, and he wanted to make a good first impression. His travel pack was slung over his shoulder, fully packed.

He passed the plaza where the new Council Chamber under construction, just as the Dwarves set the great crystal dome in place. Their magic crackled in the air - the sense of it sharp, stinging, like striking flint on steel. It seemed oddly fortuitous to him to walk by just at that moment.

Sunlight glinted from the crystal and the gold and silver veined marble of the columns. His breath caught at the beauty of it all. Trust the Elves to design something both functional and beautiful. Well, especially one Elf in particular.

The Council Chamber was a chamber in name only. In truth it was a great open plaza designed by Elon of Aerilann himself so the people of the Kingdoms would be able to come see their laws being made. The massive granite and marble building behind it was for the offices of the Councilors - of which Elon was one - both the High and Low and for standing space on the verandas outside.

Dwarves swarmed all over both. Dwarves in the High King’s city of Doncerric, imagine! No one could remember a time when Dwarves had walked the streets of the city. Jareth could feel the prickle of their magic as they set each stone in place with Dwarven precision.

He couldn’t dawdle though; they’d be waiting for him in the castle.

So many changes had taken place in the last few years! The Agreement had been signed and a new government - one that represented everyone, men, Elves and Dwarves - set in place.

For the first time there was hope in the air, real hope that perhaps there might be a lasting peace between the three races. This time offered by Men, by Jareth’s own people. By High King Daran no less, with the aid of Elon of Aerilann. And he, Jareth, would be a part of securing it!

Jareth hurried his steps, looking up at the towering granite walls of the High King’s castle high above where they surmounted the city itself. The damned skirts of the robes kept tangling around his shins as he strode up the causeway, beneath the Great Tower with its murder hole and then into the courtyard.

As always, the courtyard bustled with people rushing to and fro on the High King’s business, presenting petitions or making demands.

The chatelaine waved him on with a smile - knowing him from prior visits - shaking her head at him in fond amusement. He’d visited often in the company of the Master of wizards, Dorcet.

He smiled back but his stomach locked up even tighter as he strode toward the doors of the High King’s Hall. Huge ironbound doors that those brought before the High King’s justice had named The Crack of Doom for the sound they made when they closed - a deep resounding boom.

They weren’t closed now, they were open wide. Reflected sunlight from the marble floors beyond poured through them, the light glaring.

Jareth let his pack slip from his hands to set it beside the door out of the way.

Throughout the Kingdoms the High King’s Hall was noted for its remarkable beauty, for the white marble walls, the dark marble floors and the expanse of rare glass windows that made up the length of one wall. Windows that could actually be propped open to let light and air in rather than the high clerestory openings and deep gloom of most Halls. That in itself was astonishing. Add to it the nearly legendary splendor of the High King’s garden outside those windows and it was a wonder in itself.

The guards nodded acknowledgement as he passed between them, his heart hammering in his chest with nervousness.

He remembered Dorcet’s words and the hearty clap to the shoulder his beloved Master had given him.

“Your chance has come, Jareth, my lad,” Dorcet had said with a smile. “You’ll finally get a chance to meet Elves.”

And what Elves…!

From the time he’d been a boy he’d always been fascinated with that beautiful, aloof and distant race.

“You’re the best wizard for the job, Jareth, be sure of that, my lad, or I wouldn’t send you,” Dorcet had said then, giving him a stern look. “Mind me, of that there is no doubt! You’ll do just fine, lad. You know the way of them and there’s none - wizard or not - that I would choose other.”

That memory eased his belly only a little.

He knew he was young for the job, only in his early twenties. There were more than a few other wizards who wanted the position who were both older than he and more experienced. Avila for one, but her dislike of Elves was well known. Dorcet had wanted someone younger, more open-minded. Someone like him.

Then Jareth’s breath caught again.

There he was. Or rather, there they were. The Elves.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them before, he’d been present at the signing of the Agreement with Dorcet but not this close.

Elon of Aerilann stood in the center of the Hall. The legendary Elon of Aerilann himself, First among Equals in his Enclave, Councilor and Advisor to the High King, with his paxman - or true-friend as Elves named it - Colath, at his side.

Standing in the middle of the room, the two Elves drew the eye even amidst the hustle and bustle of High King’s Court.

Looking at them, you couldn’t mistake them for anything other than Elf - and it wasn’t just the ears.

They were tall, taller than most men, one dark, one light; Colath a bright shadow to Elon’s dark, their hair falling as straight as rain. Both were incredibly well built, the muscles in their chests and arms sharply defined even beneath clothing, the fluid Elven-silk draping over them. There was also that ineffable Elven calm and confidence that so many of Jareth’s own race saw as arrogance - a serenity that men saw as aloofness, an impassivity his people declared cold.

It was clear what they were to each other in the way they stood, Colath a little beside and behind, ready to defend Elon’s back even where there was no need. This was something else men envied, that closeness that didn’t need words.

As much as he tried it was an effort not to stare at them and not just because they were Elves - you could see Elves riding openly anywhere throughout the Kingdoms more and more of late these days - but simply because among a race that defined masculine beauty Colath embodied it.

In truth, no Elf was homely. As a race they were a beautiful people, perhaps as much for the calm confidence that radiated from all of them…but Colath was above and beyond even that.

Hair the color of ripe wheat streamed over broad shoulders to be caught back Elven style in narrow beaded braids at each side of his strong but finely featured face. Those features were sculpted, each line clean, his silvery eyes long-lashed and beautifully shaped; they mirrored the color of his clothing. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, he had the body of the master swordsman he was said to be, firmly muscled in the chest, arms and back, lean in the abdomen and hips. He held himself with cool confidence, his arms crossed as he stared expressionlessly out the windows.

Even in the face of Colath’s beauty, though, Elon of Aerilann caught, drew and held the eye, just by the strength of his personality.

As dark as Colath was light, his features stern, as impassive as all Elves, Elon of Aerilann dominated the room by the sheer force and strength of his character, by his air of calm sure confidence. In a room also occupied by Daran High King, a formidable personality himself, that said something.

Here then was the Elf who’d gone toe to toe with Daran, wresting concessions from that stubborn, scheming and shrewd King that were still being debated in halls and taverns throughout the Kingdom and would be for years to come.

Including the concession Jareth was about to embark on with him.

If they accepted him.

The Accords - the Agreement that had been forged between men, Elves and Dwarves -wouldn’t have been possible without the diplomacy and eloquence of Elon of Aerilann. For all it had been Daran High King’s idea - his vision and dream - Elon of Aerilann had shared that vision...that dream. Even so he wouldn’t sacrifice one inch, one iota, of protection for the elder races - not if it meant his people and the Dwarves would suffer.

As tall as Colath, inches above Jareth himself - and Jareth was tall for a man - and the hawk-like Daran High King, Elon of Aerilann was an impressive figure physically as well.

He was simply striking, if only for the sternness of his features.

More than most Elves, there was about Elon of Aerilann a supremely calm confidence that many men envied and called arrogance but wasn’t. His dark hair was swept back from his high forehead and held in place by Elven style braids and a narrow band of gold. His features were as expressionless as Colath’s or any Elf’s, but strong, more defined, those dark eyebrows arching high above eyes so deep a brown in color as to appear nearly black.

In contrast, Daran High King - similar in build and coloring - seemed less imposing. In other company, with his high-arched, aquiline nose, sharp eyes, thin mouth and sharp personality, he was a very impressive man in his own right.

As with Colath, Elon was strongly built as befitted the master swordsman he was. Master even above Colath, for it was said Elon had trained Colath. No other swordsman, Elf or man, could match him, save perhaps the legendary Elf and wizard Talesin. Certainly no man could best even the least Elf with either a sword or a bow, much less these two. Even the least of their race had learned the skill out of necessity and then honed it to a razor edge in order to defend themselves against first the creatures of the borderlands and then the more numerous, and vicious, race of men.

Jareth’s own people.

Fewer in numbers, the Elves and the Dwarves had found themselves increasingly at odds with the younger race.

Until now. Finally, there was the promise of a lasting peace.

Despite that promise both Elves wore their swords, long and short, even in the High King’s castle where no other could, in recognition of those days…and the fact that they weren’t truly over.

Not yet. One last task remained.

The Agreement was too new a thing and still disputed in some parts of the Kingdoms. Hence their mission.

The High King’s chancellor announced him.

Turning, Daran High King looked toward the newcomer. His jaw tightened as he looked at the young wizard who hurried into the room.

Jareth.

He said nothing, instead taking a deep restraining breath.

He could wish Dorcet had sent a more prepossessing wizard.

Oh, there was no doubt as to Jareth’s talent - he was rumored to be Dorcet’s own choice as the next Master once Jareth had the years and practice to supplement his skill in magic. Unfortunately, he was also as homely a man as they came - his features as rumpled and plain as his clothes. As always, the young wizard appeared slightly disheveled. His robes were as wrinkled as if he’d slept in them, his hair with its unruly cowlick mussed and windblown. With his towering height, a height to match Daran himself, the wizard was both ungainly and unmistakable. Worse, rumor had it he’d been an orphaned street urchin, spawned of some harlot and plucked off the streets of Doncerric.

That explained much.

Yet folk seemed uniformly and inordinately fond of the young wizard.

At the Chancellor’s announcement, Elon, too, turned to see who had arrived and his spirit lightened as he spotted the tall young man in wizard’s robes.

He’d feared who they might have chosen to be paired with them. His people had little reason to trust wizards, to say the least. Human wizards had done his people a great deal of harm in the past, in ways that left bitter memories and lasting scars.

Elon bore more than a few of both.

Looking now at the gangly young wizard with his open, curious face and mop of brownish hair, Elon allowed himself a breath of hope. Perhaps this wouldn’t be too much a trial after all.

There was a comfortable air to this one, an ease about him; a sense of being at home in his own skin as few men were.

Elon hadn’t failed to note the young wizard’s reaction to Colath but to his credit he hid it quickly and now showed no evidence of it beyond that first flicker of the eye. That spoke well of him.

Nor did he display the overweening deference or, even worse, the carefully concealed intimidation and accompanying resentment some men displayed toward Elon himself. He didn’t let his relief show any more than he would have allowed himself to show any other emotion in the face of these who had once been the enemy but were no longer.

Or so he hoped.

His voice carefully uninflected, Daran High King said, “Elon of Aerilann, Colath, be known to Jareth, wizard of Doncerric.”

It would have horrified and infuriated Daran to know just how clearly Elon and Colath could see his dismay - who didn’t and wouldn’t care about it or the reason for it - and to Jareth.

Jareth was so accustomed to it he scarcely noticed the sting.

As a boy he’d taken comfort in the Elven view of things. They simply neither noticed nor cared to notice a person’s appearance; to them what mattered was what a person did, not how they were born or how they looked. He’d taken that philosophy to heart.

He still did.

It was to Jareth’s credit, too, Elon noted with satisfaction, that the young wizard didn’t offer his hand or arm to clasp as men often did, determined to force their custom on Elves even knowing they didn’t like it.

Warm brown eyes met Elon’s evenly, giving a quick glance of acknowledgement to Colath before the young wizard grinned with anticipatory delight.

Knowing that Elves and Dwarves were empathic, the thought of shaking hands or clasping arms never crossed Jareth’s mind. Empathy increased with touch, although his own talent there was slight. Neither Elves nor Dwarves touched in public. In private? No one knew. No man had ever crossed the borders into those lands, either Elven Enclave or Dwarven Cavern, not even Daran High King himself. Not that anyone knew.

“Ala, Elon of Aerilann,” Jareth said in Elven, with a nod. “And to you as well, Colath.”

To be greeted in Elon’s own tongue was a surprise.

Heartened, Elon nodded in return. This boded very well indeed. Few men bothered to learn even that much of the Elven language. Not even Daran.

“Ala, Jareth,” he said, quietly pleased.

Colath looked to Elon, before lifting an eyebrow and looking back at the young wizard who had greeted them in their own language. He inclined his head in greeting and relaxed a fraction.

“Ala, Jareth of Doncerric,” he said.

It was in the eyes, Jareth thought, looking at him.

Their impassive expressions gave little away, but Elon of Aerilann’s dark eyes had kindled, sparked with interest. Had Jareth been elsewhere and in different company he might have whooped and jumped around in triumph but as it was he simply inclined his head in response.

As he watched the exchange, it was clear Daran didn’t like this turn of events one little bit, but he said nothing.

“Are we ready then to begin?” Elon asked, looking to the High King.

He was eager to be off. There was no love lost between himself and the High King of Men - which was of no matter to him. They could and would work together. That was enough.

Whatever else, Daran wanted to be remembered by his own people, but especially among the elder races, as the man who had wrought this peace.

Elon had learned quickly that he couldn’t trust the conniving Daran; the man loved his own plots and schemes far too well. He’d been burnt once and that had been enough. Daran sought his place in history by way of the Agreement. It was to be his legacy, nothing more. How that peace would be gotten - by what means - didn’t matter to him so long as it was gotten and his place in history assured. His reasons didn’t matter to Elon, so long as there was peace for his people.

In spite of that, Elon felt a lifting of spirit - a sense of hope he couldn’t deny. This would be the last piece of an intricate puzzle.

For the first time in memory - and his long-lived people had longer memories than men - there was a chance at a real and lasting peace. For that Elon was willing to tolerate almost anything. If they succeeded in their mission, those boundaries that men recognized would be marked. All the lesser Kings had signed that Agreement and agreed therefore to abide by it.

No more would there be war between Elves, Dwarves and men over land. Never again would a King or Queen of men push beyond their boundaries and cry foul to their people when Elves or Dwarves rose up in defense. Never again would other regents rise up in battle when their brothers sought common cause against the Elder races. For those who took up arms, there would be others who could and would stand aside, rightfully, legally. They would point at that document and ask if those who called for war would be forsworn.

If they didn’t, the High King’s own army would.

Never again would the armies of men be raised against Elven folk as had happened in the past.

Instead, the High King would put forth his levies in defense of Elven and Dwarven hegemony.

For Daran to have his legacy, he would and must stand with the Elves…even against his own people.

It was as if a weight Elon hadn’t known he carried lifted from his shoulders.

He was under no illusions. There were those who would try to prevent this mission, which was why he would risk no other than himself and Colath in attempting it.

Save this young wizard.

Looking down his long nose at Jareth, Daran asked, “What has your Master told you?”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jareth nodded respectfully to the High King.

“I am to be part of those who set the Border markers as per the Agreement, acting as guide, as wizard, and as the representative of Men in this as Elon of Aerilann is representative of Elves and Dwarves.”

Daran didn’t like it, couldn’t like it, that a common orphan…this wizard…would represent Men in this endeavor but there was no help for it. A wizard had to go - to set the markers in place as only a wizard could. Elon would go to verify that the markers were indeed set, properly, defining the lands of Elves, Dwarves and Men for all time so there could be no quarrel over them - a source of contention in the past.

He would’ve preferred to send someone more…appropriate…but there wasn’t anyone else. It was difficult enough to choose any.

Select a member of one Kingdom over that of another and he’d be showing favoritism, set one against another and he risked acrimony. If he chose a member of his own staff they’d say he had set himself over and above the lesser Kings. Among the wizards there were those who hated the elder races. And the elder races had more than enough reason to hate wizards.

Elon had to go as it was he who had negotiated the Agreement and only he the Elves and Dwarves would trust and accept as their envoy. His Elven honor held him up in their eyes, his integrity unquestioned. Even by men.

Unlike himself, Daran thought bitterly.

Then there were Aerilann’s defensive skills - skills beyond that which most men possessed. They would be necessary, too. Not everyone was reconciled to the Agreement, even some of those who’d signed it, as Daran well knew.

Daran nodded and looked to Elon. “Very well, when will you leave then?”

Glancing at Jareth in question, Elon said, “Immediately, if possible.”

A grin flashed over the young wizard’s face as he gestured to his pack beside the door.

“I’m ready if you are.”

Watching, Colath was already beginning to like the brash young wizard, despite what he was. He sensed through the bond he and Elon shared that Elon did, too. This might not be as much of a trial as they’d feared.

“Very well, then,” Elon said and nodded. He looked at Daran. “We leave immediately.”

It was clear Daran was startled by their readiness but could find no reason to delay them.

To be honest, though Daran said nothing, Elon knew Daran was relieved to be spared his presence for a time and there was something to be said for that.

“Ready?” Elon said to the wizard, who nodded.

Inclining his head, Elon turned for the doors, the young wizard falling in at his right as Colath fell in on his left, in guard position, ever and always at Elon’s back.

The guards gave no apparent notice to them and the staff ignored them but Jareth saw heads turn among the visitors to the castle to see two Elves accompanied by a man - him - as they walked through the High King’s castle. Together. He supposed he’d get used to the stares. It would take months, if not years, to set all the markers at the pace most horses of men could manage.

Stepping out into the brilliant sunlight to see what awaited there he suddenly thought, Maybe not.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t allow himself to hope.

A trio of horses awaited, not two, and not just any horses. Beautiful Elven-bred horses. For a moment Jareth simply couldn’t encompass it, the thought of even touching an Elven-bred horse was so far beyond his comprehension.

Gleaming in the sunlight, they were tall animals, standing hands higher than the horses of men, even the massive draft horses such as farmers used. These were lean and sleek with large intelligent eyes. A breath of breeze feathered through manes and tails as light as silk. Bred by the Elves for speed and stamina it was said an Elven-bred could cross the Kingdoms in weeks rather than months. So attuned were they to their rider that their reins were simply decorative.

They were also beautiful, magnificent examples of horseflesh.

One was so deep a black its hide glinted with blue highlights, its tack so light as to be clearly for show, and of the same color as its hide, while the other was silvery-gold in shade, like ripe wheat.

The third was a deep mottled gray.

Reaching out, Elon grasped that horse’s reins, drew its head around gently so the horse could see him.

“His name is Zo,” he said. “He’s a cull but he’s strong and intelligent.”

For a moment, Jareth could only stand there breathless, afraid to comprehend, afraid to believe what they were offering him, however temporarily. Even a cull was so far beyond his pocketbook as to be unimaginable.

Reaching out tentatively, Jareth stroked a hand down the silky nose. “Fog.”

Zo allowed the touch.

Elon lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Just so. So you do speak Elven, it’s not just rote.”

Slowly Jareth nodded, distracted by the horse, by the wonder of him. “As much as I am able, with texts I found in the library from the past. My pronunciations may be off.”

The young wizard was so fascinated with the horse he didn’t even note the small smile Elon allowed to grace his face at his amazement, his unassuming nature, and his pleasure in the horse.

“We can correct that,” Colath said, amused.

Lifting his head, Jareth looked to Elon, his voice breathless. “Mine?”

Elon nodded. “Yours.”

It hadn’t been politic to mention it in Daran’s presence.

The High King of Men desired an Elven purebred with an intensity that bordered on obsession, although none but Elves rode them or ever would, but he would have settled for a cull. He wouldn’t, however, be given one, not with his temperament. Elon had seen how he treated the horses of men, his reins hard on their mouths. He wouldn’t expose even a cull to Daran’s volatile temperament.

Jareth on the other hand…

Chosen for his gentle and flexible nature, Zo had been deemed perfect for this mission. Elon had planned to allow whoever accompanied them on this journey to ride Zo temporarily - he definitely didn’t intend to be months or years away from his beloved Aerilann - unless the horse bonded with his rider as Elven horses were wont to do.

It ceased to be a question. Bonding had taken place instantly - again boding well for the young wizard.

This promised to be an interesting journey.

Chapter Two

Zo’s gait was so smooth that - for Jareth - it was like riding a dream, or a cloud. He was fascinated by it and by the other two -watching the smooth, steady pace of Elon and Colath’s horses as they rode through the main gates of the High King’s city and out onto the Plains. Their speed was another source of interest. That even canter seemed no different to him than the horses of men and yet they ate up the miles far more quickly - putting distance between themselves and Doncerric far faster than he believed possible.

It was more than a matter of their longer legs and greater stamina, there was something of magic in it, Jareth knew, a magic bred by the Elves into the horses themselves.

A brisk, cool, salt-laden breeze from the sea that hammered and boomed at the cliffs of Doncerric blew over them as they turned north and slightly west, away from the ocean and toward the forested Enclave of Alatheriann - the largest of all the Elven Enclaves and the closest to Doncerric.

Others also rode out on this mission but they marked only the undisputed territories between and around the various lesser Kingdoms that made up the whole.

It fell to Elon, Colath and Jareth to mark these others - the ones between Elves, Dwarves and men.

Per the Agreement, this that they would mark first was also undisputed. To declare it and make it so were two entirely different things, though.

There was no small talk as they rode. It wasn’t a thing of Elves to talk for no reason, to comment on the weather - clear and bright, with the breeze setting the grasses and grains to blowing like waves on the sea - or the journey - which traced a path they all knew.

While he felt no need to comment on it, Elon enjoyed the fresh air, the sun warm on his skin as they finally escaped the confines of stone that the races of men and Dwarves seemed to enjoy.

It wasn’t for his people to be enclosed but to be out in the open air with the soft-scented breezes around them, the sun warm on their shoulders while the horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm against the earth.

It was as well, too, that Jareth seemed to have no need to chatter as many men did, smothering the music of the world with their voices rather than listening to the whisper of the wind through the grass, the sweet songs of the birds - the heartbeat of the land.

The first few markers went easily enough as they skirted the very edges of Alatheriann, the ‘buffer zone’ as Daran had ironically named them. Verdant lands that lay between those of Elves and men, necessary for hunting but also for keeping distance between the empathic races and the mentally noisy folk of the Kingdoms.

It was another point in Jareth’s favor that he was as quiet in his mind as in his nature.

Elon and Colath sensed the watchers within Alatheriann observe them, though none came to greet them as they normally would have - not with a man - a wizard no less - in their presence.

Such things would take time even for their more broad-minded folk to accept, much less those of men. Elves - who had no capacity for lying - had learned early that the honor of men was shown more in the breach than the observance. It was difficult to tell which men could be trusted…and some who were trustworthy were still capable of betrayal under the right circumstances. Few men held honor the way Elves did, as inherent to their nature. Add wizardry to the mix - especially the horrors of which the wizards of old had been capable - and wariness was to be expected.

Magic such as that which men possessed was a rare talent among Elves, although most their people had intrinsic magic of some kind, if only the strength, speed and rapid healing all Elves had or the ability to light fires and find water. Others like Elon himself were gifted with far more.

The process of setting the boundaries wasn’t a difficult one.

Living on the edges of the Kingdoms and so close to the borderlands all Elves had an innate sense of place and location but men wouldn’t accept that as truth even knowing Elves didn’t lie. So Jareth would verify the location of each marker with a sextant and landmarks, conjure up the marker stone with those specifications from among those stored in the High King’s castle and set it in place. Once it was set Elon and Jareth would use a binding spell to set the stone immovably into the earth in that location.

It was simple in principle.

What it meant, and what the repercussions would be, was not so simple.

Elves and Dwarves didn’t need to mark land, to divide it into neat squares, to declare ownership yet deny it to others. Both claimed only the space they dwelled upon - their Enclaves and Caverns - seeing the rest as sacred open space, a pleasure to be shared, a source of sustenance for both body and soul.

Since men had come, however, rarely did any length of time pass but men pushed for more land, more space, declaring ownership of that which wasn’t theirs to own. So they would set the boundaries and markers so men, Elves and Dwarves could live in peace with one another.

Not all were so ready to cede that land to the other races. So far, though, they hadn’t come into conflict.

Elon didn’t expect that to last.

Beyond this point, past Alatheriann and the Dwarven Cavern just beyond it, beyond his own Aerilann were the Kingdoms to the north and the Dwarven Cavern there in the highest reaches of the mountains. To the east were the two smallest Enclaves. Tiny Lothliann was the emerald jewel of the Enclaves - once ravaged by wildfire but now restored to its former glory. It was hardest pressed by the greed of men, simply for its verdant growth. In between were the lands of men. The farms of the Heartlands were fast encroaching on Lothliann’s territory.

And Aerilann’s, his own Enclave.

Talaena, spared by its mountains and its proximity to the independent Kingdom of Marakis, was virtually undisturbed but unlikely to remain so for long.

All three grew more alert as they completed their circuit of Alatheriann, leaving a trail of markers embedded in the earth around it, before turning north into the unclaimed lands between it and the Dwarven Cavern beyond. They skirted to the west of one of the lesser Kingdoms, bringing them dangerously near where the Borderlands drew close and where the vicious, magically enhanced creatures of those lands held sway.

In such a place it could be fatal to let your guard down. Nor would they.

They camped at the location of the last marker, knowing the lands they were about to enter. It would be better to be well-rested before they reached them.

The country was wild and rough, thickly forested in some places while in others the bones of the earth broke through the thin skin of the earth in rocky outcroppings. Little grew in such desolation - mostly lichen, tall, sparse grasses and scrubby trees.

As the leader of Hunters - those who defended Elven lands from the predations of the creatures of the Borderlands -  Colath was well familiar with those creatures. As was Elon. He rode with the Hunters regularly as part of his duties as First among equals.

Both loosened their swords in their scabbards as they rode out and eyed the concealing brush around them.

Jareth, who’d stripped off his wizard’s robes and stuffed them into his saddlebag at the first opportunity, shook back his sleeves and drew up power. Elon could feel it drift over his skin.

“This is good territory for boggins and boggarts,” Colath said softly.

The small, quick and incredibly powerful animals were thickly furred and appeared vaguely man-like but possessed teeth like razors and jaws that could break even Elven bones like matchsticks. Smaller but more savage, boggins were cousins to the larger boggarts.

“Firbolg, too,” Jareth offered.

At a surprised glance from the two Elves he added, “I served for a time with the Hunters.”

It wasn’t required of the general run of wizards - although Jareth personally thought it should be. Such duty was required of itinerant wizards, those who moved about the Kingdoms at random, serving where they were most needed. That was how Jareth wanted to serve and so he had prepared appropriately.

With a nod Elon looked to Colath and then to Jareth, impressed and encouraged.

“Well enough,” he said, satisfied.

None of the creatures was stupid, the larger boggarts and firbolg having intelligence close to that of man. It was unwise by far to underestimate them or their cunning.

The attack when it came was still an unpleasant surprise.

With reflexes not unlike that of the great hunting cats they somewhat resembled, firbolg exploded out of the cover of the brush, one leaping from concealment in the branches of a tree - the group hunting as a pride, not as solitary males.

So quickly Jareth’s eyes could barely credit it, Elon and Colath were back to back, their horses spinning on their back hooves. Swords lashed out. Blood flew as they struck.

Then he was too busy to watch.

He sent a mage-bolt flying past Colath to fry a firbolg in midair as it leaped from another tree at Colath’s head. The creature fell to the ground, the stench of burnt fur and scorched meat filling the air.

Beneath Elon’s knees, his horse spun and kicked in tandem with Colath’s as he cut another of the firbolg in two and Colath took the limbs of another. Jareth sent mage-bolts flashing into the underbrush.

In an instant - faced with fierce opposition - the firbolg vanished, to skulk and hunt them from cover.

Elon knew the sounds of battle and the scent of blood would likely draw the boggarts as well. He looked to Colath.

Sliding his longsword into his scabbard, Colath reached for his bow, strung it swiftly. While the bow wasn’t his best weapon as a Hunter it was still one of his better skills.

Nocking an arrow Colath let fly into a thick batch of brush and was rewarded by a yowl of pain. There was a flurry of movement away from them as they kicked their horses into a gallop that wasn’t quite flight, keeping their weapons to hand.

Young Jareth turned in his saddle to send a burst of mage fire along their back trail to discourage pursuit.

The pride of firbolg hadn’t given up - Elon knew - they’d simply gone to cover, looking for another opportunity to strike.

Sure enough, a firbolg burst from the brush, going for their horses’ legs. Elon swung low from the saddle to take it with his shortsword as Colath loosed another arrow at those concealed in the brush.

In an instant it was clear it had been a feint as much as a strike and Colath’s blood went cold at the threat to his true-friend.

He saw the firbolg erupt from cover, its claws rake for Elon’s throat as Elon straightened, his sword coming up to parry the thing. His heart in his throat in fear, Colath knew the angle was wrong; he couldn’t get a clear shot at the thing in time. As fast as Elon was, it would still be close.

There was only time for Elon to see the firbolg’s claws rake for him, to feel Jareth draw magic as Elon whipped his sword up to block the claws. A burst of searing heat blew past him to take the firbolg in the face and send it spinning away. Wizard’s magic.

Giving a nod of acknowledgement and thanks to Jareth, Elon pulled himself up into the saddle.

Heart hammering, Jareth nodded.

It had been a near thing.

Camp was set at the very edge of the rocky, mountainous Dwarven domain. Miners and builders of stone, the Dwarves rarely took a step out of their burrows of rock, their deep Caverns.

It was a barren land to be sure; sere, gray and brown, but the layers of stone and rock had their own stark beauty. Here was the coppery rust of iron, there a sparkle of quartz and the thin white line of marble, the golden shimmer of sandstone. It wasn’t hard to see why the Dwarves loved it.

Leaning a shoulder against the tall boulder that shielded one side of their campsite Elon looked out over the green valley stretched out far below them.

In all his life he hadn’t been so long away from the towering trees and lush greenery of Aerilann, of home, and he missed it sharply. He sighed, knowing as only he could that in the years to come it was likely he’d be away from Aerilann nearly as much as he was there, if this fragile peace that he and Daran had wrought between them was to hold. It was a price he’d been willing to pay, knowing it from the beginning, warned by his foresight.

Across from him, perched on a rock with one knee up on the other the young wizard coaxed a pipe alight with sparks generated by magic and then sat to smoke contentedly.

Something about that sight spoke to him.

Behind them Colath banked the fire for the night.

They’d left the firbolg behind but there was still the chance of another attack. There was no sign of boggins or boggarts. It wasn’t unknown for them to follow a back trail in the hopes of catching their quarry off guard. It was dangerous territory riding so close to the borderlands.

It was, though, pleasantly surprising to find they’d fallen into habits quickly and easily, with little need for talk. After unsaddling their horses, Elon set up the camp while Colath fetched wood for the fire and Jareth water - although in this place Jareth had done so under Colath’s watchful eye, with Colath’s bow strung and an arrow notched and ready.

Game was taken along the way but they also had journey-bread and whatever fresh fruits or vegetables they found along their path. Once the meal was cooked and done they took their ease while they watched the sun set, as now, Jareth smoking his pipe discreetly downwind, before those not on watch curled up in their bedrolls to sleep.

There was only the matter of the bedrolls, Elon thought with some amusement. No matter where Jareth set his there was always a rock beneath it so he awoke sore and grumbling to Elon and Colath’s mild entertainment, his brown eyes indignant. He was proving to be good company.

It was a companionable silence and Jareth found he enjoyed it as much as the Elves appeared to.

Truth be told, most people wore on him quickly. They talked too much. He had no need for the constant noise most of his folk seemed to enjoy.

Knocking his pipe against the stone, Jareth was careful to make certain it was empty and then crushed the dottle from the pipe thoroughly to make certain the fire was out - not that there was much to catch fire here except the thin scrubby grass.

In the sky above them the moon rose in a thin crescent.

Each of them took turn standing watch at the entrance of the little cup of stone where they made camp.

Colath came to take Elon’s place at the mouth of the little bowl of tumbled boulders for the first watch of the night.

After the fight and the flight of the day, it was a pleasure for Elon to curl up in his blankets - knowing Colath would rouse him if there was a problem. Elon could see his old friend standing at the entrance to the camp, his arms crossed. Across from him Jareth slept restlessly.

The horses browsed the thin grasses at the back of the bowl where they would be safe from the attacks of firbolg, boggin or boggart. It wouldn’t do, to lose the horses in these lands. It would be their lives if they did - slowed by two up or, far worse, caught on the ground.

Resolutely, Elon put such things from his mind and set himself to sleep.

A light mental nudge from Colath awakened him, the barest touch. It took little more than that. True-friends for more than two hundred years as men measured such things they knew each other’s ways well.

With a nod and a touch to the shoulder, Elon shrugged into the harness for his swords and took Colath’s place.

Jareth was a long huddle beneath his blankets. He would take the third watch, just before dawn, breaking up the darkest hours of the night between them.

It was calm and quiet, serenely beautiful, the pale moonlight casting a faint argent glow over the rocks, stones and boulders. Not far away an owl called softly to its mate. In the sky above him the thin crescent moon had reached its apex and begun its downward journey. Stars glittered like ice in the vault of darkness above him. A soft breeze rustled the thin grasses, a faint whisper of sound. He listened to the sounds of the night and became aware when they went silent save for the sound of the grasses.

The owl took silently to the wing, swooping into the night and not by choice. Something had disturbed him.

Cautious, Elon drew his swords.

They came out of the night, the firbolg, their pale fur mimicking the moonlight as they rushed across the ground. Nor had they come alone. A boggart leaped for him.

Chapter Three

A feline scream drew Jareth out of sleep with a rush. For a moment, he could only stare in breathless astonishment…and in wonder.

He’d never seen anything so swift, so strangely beautiful or so very deadly as watching Elon of Aerilann fight off firbolg and boggins alone in the moonlight.

The Elf moved like water - smoothly, gracefully - his swords swirling around him almost as if they, too, were fluid, as if the steel bent like reeds in the flow of his movement. Yet where they touched, blood flew. There was no sound save for the cries of the firbolg and boggins. Bodies littered the ground around him, as steel flashed like lightning in the thin moonlight. Every movement was graceful and sure as he wove a web of steel around himself, denying entrance as Colath took up his swords and went to join him.

There was no pause, Colath simply stepped into the flow of Elon’s movement and became part of it. It was as if they were one person; extensions of each other, one stepping in where the other wasn’t.

Jareth saw the firbolg leap and scramble to the rocks above him and them and fired a mage-bolt, sending it spinning out into the night as he rolled to his feet, calling up power. Energy flared around him, gathered in his hands.

A boggart leaped to one of the rocks and then toward Colath. Jareth picked it out of the air.

It wasn’t his first fire-fight, but he felt the same mixture of terror and exhilaration as he spun and turned in response to the motion he saw at the edges of his vision as Elon and Colath defended the entrance to their little shelter.

While he could take no pleasure in killing even these vicious things, Elon couldn’t deny it felt good to move; to fight cleanly - rather than be mired in seemingly endless debate, negotiation and discussion. It felt good as well to have Colath at his back once again in honest battle rather than the verbal kind, and surprisingly, to find he trusted Jareth to cover them both. As he had trusted him earlier in the day with his own life, sensing the wizard as he drew power. More, to draw him into the familiar pattern of he and Colath - to know and trust that Jareth would fill a space that hadn’t been there before but now was.

And he did.

Faced with such determined opposition the firbolg fell back. The tipping point had been reached between losing too many for the pride to recover and the prey they might win, if they succeeded.

The boggins were more stubborn but a last spray of mage-fire from Jareth was enough to discourage them and convince them to quit the field of battle, too.

If it hadn’t been for the risk that men would pass so deep into borderlands territory and so encroach on Dwarven territory from the rear, Elon wouldn’t have risked it and their lives to set a marker so close to the borderlands. Too many centuries of men ever pushing their boundaries had taught him a lesson that wouldn’t be unlearned.

Wiping the blade of his sword Elon looked to Jareth. It had grown light while they fought, bright enough to see the young wizard’s resolute expression.

There was hope yet though, to be found in him.

A clatter of hooves on stone warned them of riders approaching from the depths of Dwarven lands.

To Elon’s surprise, he saw it wasn’t a party of the men but one of the Dwarven Wives, and she wore a Lore Master’s jewel suspended from the heavy golden chain around her throat. Both a leader and a user of magic…

He, they, would do well to go cautiously here. Very cautiously. He glanced at Jareth, worriedly.

The young wizard met his look, quickly concealing his own apprehension.

The Lore Master was perched on one of the small, sturdy Dwarven ponies they used in the mines to pull the carts of ore. A coterie of massive Dwarven men - their faces much like the rock they mined, grim and gray - surrounded her, their bodies heavily muscled from years of digging and working the stone.

The Dwarves gave the outward appearance it was the men who led when in truth it was the women - a concession to their dealings with Men after one too many of the Wives had been killed. Men had had no understanding of the importance of Wives to Dwarven culture and society. Like the name of their people - which in their own language meant chosen of the stone while in Mannish it meant small - it was a source of much misunderstanding. Adapted to heavy work in the mines, the men were all obstreperous and volatile when not at work. Smaller in stature and warmer by nature, the Wives were the balance to their men - a calming oasis. They were the Healers among them, the gem miners and workers.

Like Elves the Dwarves were also empathic and there were bindings within their community as deep and strong as the soul-bond that bound Elven couples together, or the true-friend bond Elon and Colath shared. A friendship so deep it held them as close as or closer than brothers. To lose a true-friend was to lose a vital part of yourself, someone who understood you completely.

To lose a soul-bond? It was to lose half of yourself, to always feel that loss keenly, that missing part of one’s soul, one’s spirit, the ease and peace of knowing the one person who understood your heart and soul, the boundless depths of your spirit.

Elon hadn’t yet formed a soul-bond and he felt the absence sharply, especially at times such as these. He’d had alliances and a child had been born of one of them but that deeper bond was denied him. Much older than many of his folk to find his, after so long there was a part of him, buried deep, that feared his soul-bond had been lost in the terrible days of the Wizard Wars or in one of the many conflicts between Elves and men, before he could know her.

In the end, he couldn’t know; he could only serve his people, letting that and his treasured true-friend bond with Colath salve that wound…and wait.

Long-lived, the Dwarves were - like Elves - also less fertile than men. The loss of any of child-bearing age layered disaster on top of desolation.

So the need for subterfuge, foregone here when it was Elves and Dwarves who treated with one another, Jareth’s presence notwithstanding, although she looked askance at him before she chose to ignore him. One or two of the male Dwarves didn’t, their eyes glittering as they eyed him with warning.

This then the reason for sending a Lore Master, as defense against Jareth’s magic.

“Elon of Aerilann,” she said, her voice surprisingly deep, a rumble in her chest, yet the sound was still musical.

Elon inclined his head in respect.

“I am Palic, Lore Master and First Wife here,” she said. “There is one of the race of men with you - a wizard.”

Her tone was accusatory.

First Wife was Elon’s counterpart as First among Equals among the Dwarves - chosen by all of her Cavern to lead.

As many of the Dwarven women were, she was fair to look upon, with hair the color of polished oak. It spilled in tight curls and ringlets down over her shoulders and back. She was sweetly curved but her golden eyes were as cold and implacable as the metal they resembled.

There was power in her, too.

“A wizard, yes, and a man,” Elon acknowledged.

It wasn’t as if the Dwarves hadn’t known they were coming, they’d been warned. This had always been a danger, though. The Dwarves looked for a reason to break the compact.

Jareth went still, his heart in his throat.

Dwarves had no reason to love the men who encroached on their lands, attempted to invade their mines and cheated them - these people to whom a Contract was Law…and as binding.

These folk loved wizards even less than Elves as their people too, had suffered at the hands of his kind during the wizard wars. Like Elves, the long-lived members of this race hadn’t forgotten.

As Elon hadn’t, though he’d been little more than a boy. The memories were bitter and painful. He set them aside.

Thankfully, Palic wasn’t one of those or they might be facing greater difficulty on Jareth’s behalf.

Men - living much shorter lives - forgot easily, considering such things as something from the past, while some here and throughout Elven and Dwarven lands still bore the scars - both physical and mental - of those terrible wars. There was some question as to which type of scar was worse.

And forgetting, men didn’t change their ways but repeated the mistakes and habits of old.

The elder races might be empathic, but that didn’t guarantee a uniformity of opinion. Even among Elon’s own people, as dedicated to justice as they were - it being one of the tenets of Elven life and an integral part of Elven honor - there were some who weren’t comfortable with the Agreement, knowing men too well.

Among the less flexible, more conservative Dwarves, the conflict was more pronounced. It had taken much persuasion on Elon’s part to convince them to sign, binding them to the Contract that was the Agreement.

Given the circumstances, Jareth couldn’t defend himself against an attack - even unprovoked - and certainly not with magic, or risk open war, no matter the circumstances.

Something they all well knew.

Nor could Jareth best a Dwarf physically however tall he was. Even Elon and Colath would have been tried there. Jareth was at real risk.

That he knew it was evident by the slight paleness of his skin.

For all his youth, though, he wasn’t impetuous; he said nothing in his own defense, wisely leaving that to Elon. He sat his horse, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle in plain sight of all, his gaze respectfully lowered.

Elon could only be grateful for that self-possession - although he found he hadn’t doubted it nor truly feared it. He was coming to like and trust the young wizard, despite everything he knew of men.

It wasn’t time to mention to Palic that the presence of a wizard had been in the Agreement the people of the Dwarves had signed. The Agreement was a Contract, and inviolable. Were he to present it now, though, he would give up his strongest point in the negotiations too soon.

Impassive as his own folk in the presence of a Wife and a Lore Master, it was difficult to tell if any of the males here bore Jareth any enmity for what he was.

“Do you stand surety for his behavior?” Palic demanded.

The moment Elon had accepted this mission it had been implicit that he would stand as guarantor for the behavior of those in his party. That acceptance had been tacit. Hence his concern at the beginning of their journey.

Now, though?

There was no question. Jareth had guarded their backs, his and Colath’s.

“Yes,” Elon said without hesitation.

Her amber eyes darkened.

“Your life on it, Elf,” she said.

It would be. Her magic was the match of his.

To any other those words might have given a moment’s pause.

Elon’s life? At just the thought, Jareth’s heart caught and he nearly cried out in protest but it was already too late, Elon was already nodding.

No one other than his Master and his foster parents had ever shown such faith in him. There was so much that could go wrong, no matter how hard you tried. No one knew that better than Jareth. He took a breath and let it out, all too aware of Colath’s eyes on him. It was his true-friend’s life in Jareth’s hands.

None of the others seemed to catch Jareth’s start.

That trust, though, pierced him to the core even as it made his heart leap and his spirit glow.

“This isn’t our way, Elf,” Palic said, sharply, “this marking of place.”

Elon nodded. “Nor ours but it must be if we are to live in peace with men.”

Foresight had told him as much, if it didn’t always speak clearly.

“He is wizard,” Palic said, “and not to be trusted.”

“I trust him, Palic,” Elon said, evenly.

Their eyes met.

“So be it,” Palic said. “It is on your head.”

Looking at her steadily, Elon said, “No, it is on yours, Palic. Your people signed the Agreement.”

“I didn’t,” she said, sharply, seeking a loophole to break it.

Keeping his voice even, Elon said, “Goras signed for you - for all Dwarves - binding all of you to it.”

The Dwarven representative on the High Council, Goras was one of the Three - along with Daran High King and Eliade of the Elves - who ruled over all the Kingdoms.

“As it does you, Elon of Aerilann,” she said, her eyes going abruptly dark.

Well he knew it.

A shiver of foresight went through him but of what it warned he didn’t know.

There was a saying men had…no good deed goes unpunished. That was for an unknown and unseen future. In the meantime, there was this.

“I would see what it is he does,” she demanded.

“The place for the next marker is just ahead,” Elon said evenly. “Will you join us?”

Placing each step carefully, the horses picked their way over the scree of tumbled, rocky slopes, down to where the delicate green grass grew in tufts among the bones of the earth. Here, too, the skin of the earth was thin.

Elon looked at Jareth as they dismounted.

The young wizard clearly felt the responsibility, the weight that was on him. His face was still pale, his deep brown eyes wide and worried.

Meeting Elon’s eyes a thousand thoughts went through Jareth’s mind.

‘Fetching’ from that far away was chancy enough. He was as likely to drop it on Palic’s head as he was his own foot. Each stone varied slightly in weight, the heaviness unexpected no matter how prepared he was. Then there was the chance his own people would interfere, waiting for this opportunity to attack with both Elves and Dwarves here. That would be his kind of luck. Certainly there were enough among his own people who shared Palic’s misgivings.

Some of them didn’t trust him either.

There was a light touch to his shoulder, long strong fingers. Elon. Elves didn’t touch much as a rule, and never men.

Jareth looked into Elon of Aerilann’s dark eyes, normally so stern but there was an understanding there and a confidence in him that few others save his own Master expressed. His heart contracted at that look, at the faith in those dark eyes and something within him loosened. He turned his head to look at Colath.

That same look was mirrored in Colath’s seemingly colorless eyes.

It shook Jareth to the core.

“What we do not show, Jareth,” Elon said, quietly, “we still feel.”

As calmly, Colath said, “Courage is not lack of fear but proceeding in spite of it.”

Drawing in a breath, Jareth let it out sharply. He nodded.

Looking to Palic, Elon said, “This is the correct place for the marker, agreed?”

Grimly, she nodded, folding her arms over her chest.

His heart beating hard, Jareth stepped to the spot Elon marked. With no men to observe it wasn’t necessary to confirm it with the sextant, and before these, knowing Elven veracity, it would have been insulting.

Calm settled over him. His eyes met Elon’s before he dared look at Palic directly, giving her a slow respectful nod.

“You can feel the magic as I call it, my Lady,” he said, knowing Dwarves didn’t use titles any more than Elves but needing to show her respect in some way.

The nod and its intention was clearly a surprise to her.

He gave her honor. That Palic clearly understood.

She nodded in return; he could see her sense as he drew power, her eyes narrowing a little.

“I’m going to conjure the stone, now,” Jareth said.

A shock went through the Dwarves, he, Elon and Colath all saw it.

He would summon stone, something they, the workers of stone, couldn’t.

It was apparent the Dwarves thought they would bring the stones with them. The words might have been in the Agreement but they hadn’t seen it or credited it as possible.

A burst of magic was clearly felt and then the large carved stone appeared in the air above Jareth’s outstretched arms. As the weight of it hit, he staggered a little, but he didn’t dare to drop it or the disrespect he showed to the stone these folk held precious might have been his undoing. Instead he quickly lowered it to the ground.

Elon turned to Palic and asked quietly, “Would you do this with us? It’s simple magic, a binding spell such as we do to create Veils or Walls, nothing more. You would have to do magic with the wizard…”

There was a quiet unspoken undertone of challenge, of daring, in Elon’s voice.

Such a thing wouldn’t have worked on an Elf, who had no pride in such to care about, but a Dwarf? One who had just been faced with stone magic she couldn’t do herself?

Jareth bit back a smile. Now he understood that not only was Elon of Aerilann eloquent but he was wise in the ways of people, of men and Dwarves, and clever, too.

Lifting her chin defiantly, Palic sniffed and said, “I would.”

It was clear she feared nothing or at least would make it appear so in front of the men.

One of the Dwarves - obviously her husband by his proprietary nature - stepped forward to put his hands around her waist and lower her to the ground. She patted his cheek with evident and touching fondness, giving him a warm smile he returned more gravely, clearly concerned.

She stepped up to the waist-high stone - nearly chest high on her - and looked Jareth in the eye.

Respectfully, he kept his eyes on hers, staying still, letting her look her fill of him.

After a moment, she tilted her head. Her golden eyes darkened.

“We will know you, Jareth the wizard…someday.”

Prophecy whispered over Jareth’s skin; a thing of his meager foresight and her stronger prescience.

For a moment it was just the two of them, their hands on the stone as what would someday be moved between them.

Both turned to look at Elon at one and the same time, Palic’s eyes dark with the knowledge of the foretelling. Jareth’s gaze matched it.

Young as he was Jareth had more magic than he knew. He was still growing into it.

Elon nodded and stepped to join them, his hands with theirs on the stone. He felt the power move there, the metallic tang of Dwarven magic, the sharp sense of Wizard’s magic like the air after lightning, as he joined his own to it.

For a moment they were as one and the power one with them.

That power locked within the stone, sent tendrils like roots down into the earth to intertwine with it, binding it in place. Power swelled, surged, joined with and merged to the earth. Each and all of them felt it take hold with a sudden sharp snap and then they released it.

Beneath their hands the stone glowed, pinpoints of brightness spearing from within it where the stone had melded internally and now cooled slowly from the outside in.

For a moment even Elon felt mildly disoriented - as he would from any major joint working.

As the sensation passed, Palic turned to Jareth. “You will show me how to summon stone.”

It wasn’t a request.

Startled, Jareth stared at her a moment. He looked to Elon for guidance.

Elon looked back at him impassively but not unkindly.

This was for Jareth to decide - what to share and what not. It was the magic of men not Elves.

Turning back to Palic, Jareth looked at her. For a moment, their minds had touched and he had known her in ways he knew no other. As he now knew Elon.

“All right,” he said, and went to his knees with surprising grace for so ungainly a man.

He had only a little empathy. It would be on her to learn what she needed from him.

That he knelt before her took Palic aback for a moment, and then she smiled - warmly and gently - as kindly as the mother he couldn’t remember, as the lover he hadn’t yet found. It warmed a part of Jareth that he hadn’t known was cold.

Her fingers slid into his hair, cupped his temples tenderly.

The knowledge was there inside his mind, at the very forefront. He could almost hear her say “ah” in comprehension as she saw him lay his hands on each stone so he might ‘know’ it to conjure it.

At the same time he knew her; knew the intricacies of her, of her place in Dwarven society, of her love for her husband and her responsibility to her people. As she knew him.

Stepping away, she nodded, slowly, more than one question answered.

With a gesture, she summoned a stone - conjured it into her hand as he’d shown her - and allowed herself a smile of success and pleasure before placing it in his hand. She closed his fingers around it.

There was a touch of Dwarven magic in the air. It resonated as the stone seemed to melt into his palm.

For a moment he didn’t dare breathe as he opened his fingers, slowly.

His hand was empty.

“My blessing upon you, young Jareth,” she said serenely.

Her eyes went to Elon. “This is well done, Elon of Aerilann.”

She and her people mounted and rode away - back the way they had come.

###

They stood before the last of the stones that marked the edges of this Dwarven Cavern. Elon joined Jareth at the stone. He looked at Jareth and then at Colath. This, the knowledge of each other he and Jareth had shared with Palic, hadn’t been shared with Colath.

Not that Colath would have minded but it was on Elon to share this with his true-friend, too, to give Colath a knowledge of Jareth, and Jareth of Colath, that neither had yet.

“Would you join us, old friend?” Elon asked.

Although Colath had very little magic, he easily had enough for this small working.

Surprised and more than a little pleased, Colath nodded.

It was safe enough here, unlike the first stone on the far side of the Cavern, with little likelihood of threat so far from the Borderlands and so distant from the lands of men.

Sheathing his swords, Colath stepped to the stone and laid his hands beside theirs.

Their hands were so striking together, Jareth thought, seeing them one beside the other. Elon’s and Colath’s were long and strong, the fingers supple, whereas his own were long and rough, the knuckles knobby and scarred from beatings and fights, despite his youth.

He looked up to meet Elon’s eyes and to find Colath looking at him with amusement.

No longer did he see Colath’s beauty, just the strength and heart of him - the sure and steady friend.

Almost as one, the three of them sank their awareness into the stone.

With a sigh, Jareth felt Elven magic, soft and sweet, scented with the aroma of growing things, meet and meld with his, softening it, yet somehow steadying it, too. He sensed Elon’s strength of mind, of spirit, his calm, and Colath’s sureness, his resolve. Yet for all of that, there was an ease to the two Elves that was a balm to Jareth’s damaged spirit.

Elon reached out, drew them together, sent power down into the earth to root there and locked it.

There was a sharp crackle of power - a sense of something snapping closed forever and it was done.

Chapter Four

With a sound not unlike the whisper of water up a strand, the fields of oats, wheat and rye bent and flowed like waves, still green, ripening in the sun. The light glinted off the feathered heads of the grain as they waved in the breeze. Above them the sky was clear and brilliantly blue. The air was hot and appeared to shimmer over the grain, although the depth of summer hadn’t yet been reached. If Elon had timed their journey correctly they would reach the northernmost Dwarven Caverns then.

He could remember a time when these lands had been nothing but open prairie with grass so high he could sit his horse and run his hands over it as he rode. It had stretched for as far as the eye could see.

That had been long before men had encroached so far north.

His memories didn’t detract from what he saw; the land was still beautiful in its regimented way, each field a square, neatly delineated by the crop within it with thin strips of green grass running between the fields and along the road.

A soft breeze blew, cooler and more refreshing than it had been now that they were in these higher latitudes. The horses picked up their pace at the feel of it but they also might have sensed some little bit of Elon’s growing elation. Something Colath shared, he knew.

Anticipation swelled within them. Each hoof beat took them closer to Aerilann. To home. A home from which they’d been separated for far too long, although any length of time away was too long.

Soon the distant forest with its skirt of grassland that marked the beginning of Elven lands would be visible on the crown of the distant hills.

The folk of men with their boundaries and ownership couldn’t begin to understand this tie his people had to the land on which they were born, the land that nurtured you and kept you, cradled you and fed you. You didn’t own it - you belonged to it. You were as much a part of it as it was a part of you, from the roots to the towering crowns of the trees that were your home. It was the scent of the loam and the mosses beneath your feet, the aroma of the things that grew and the flowers that bloomed. There were berries to be picked from bushes in the spring and early summer, roots, beans and grains to be harvested and fruit gathered from the trees in the Summer and Fall.

It was home and they were drawing close to it.

Something eased in Elon that he hadn’t known was tight but for the prickling of foresight… some niggling sense of unease he couldn’t define. A warning of some sort.

Colath sensed something amiss, too, straightening in his saddle.

After so long being hunted, they were accustomed to sensing when they were being watched with unfriendly eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Jareth asked.

Elon shook his head. He couldn’t put a name to it, it was just there; the sense that he’d just become quarry was innate after nearly five hundred years.

Uneasily, Jareth scanned the horizon. A feeling of alarm he couldn’t define set his nerves jangling, too. Turning, some instinct drawing him, he looked behind them, downwind, and something deep in his belly went cold.

Smoke rose and billowed behind them.

“Elon,” he said. “The fields behind us are on fire.”

With no lightning to set it ablaze there could only be one cause.

Men.

They all knew what it meant and what it was.

Jareth let out a breath.

Looking back, Elon’s mouth tightened.

It was a tactic of men from days gone by. Not surprisingly it was one of the few things men still remembered and held from the past, to be used specifically against Elves. For a people who lived in and among the trees there could be no other more elemental enemy, no more intrinsic and atavistic fear but fire. The fire behind them was meant to cut off their retreat.

Which meant the enemy was before them and probably surrounding them. Again, the same tactics used in the past.

No single man could best an Elf sword to sword as Elves were far stronger, had more endurance and were trained with sword and bow from childhood.

Not all men sought peace, for reasons of their own, and some few of those fought it violently, if not always openly.

In an effort to stop the Agreement assassins had been sent after Elon many times during the years he had spent negotiating the truce between men, Elves and Dwarves, or when he worked on Daran’s behalf as envoy to the lesser Kings.

Daran High King was no diplomat. Elon was.

He was called eloquent, persuasive - and he was that, too. His integrity was legendary, his honor unquestioned.

To stop him men resorted to these old tactics, the old strategies from the days when men and Elves had been at war. They were taking no chances. This was one of their last chances to stop him. Few things could defeat an armed and prepared Elf. One was overwhelming numbers. Another was fire.

Surrounded, with fire at their back to cut off their retreat and no recourse, there was no choice left except to fight their way out, if they were to survive.

For a moment despair and shame threatened to overwhelm Jareth.

His people had done this. His.

At least the Dwarves talked, negotiated. Not his own folk. They could hate without reason, just because someone was different, or for greed, for what another had that they didn’t. Others for fear, not knowing what change might bring, believing the rumors, the stories and the lies, the fear-mongering that spread like the wildfire behind them - burning good grain, needed grain, destroying, not building.

Despair wouldn’t help them though, and so Jareth refused to give in to it. Not everyone felt that way. Some truly did want peace. He was one of them.

If they pushed him to it he would fight for it, too.

He reached for power even as Colath reached for his bow.

A bowstring twanged and an arrow shot toward Colath from out of the wheat.

With a flick of his fingers, Jareth sent a flash of mage fire to intercept it even as Colath got his bow strung and fired an arrow toward the thatch from where the arrow had emerged.

“Wizard,” someone shouted, “this isn’t your fight!”

“It is now,” Jareth called back. “You just made it mine.”

A dust cloud - riders - approached from the road ahead as dozens of men burst from cover in the fields around them, some bearing bows and firing as the rest ran toward them, waving their swords and shouting.

Elon reached for his bow even as Colath did and sensed Jareth raising power. The bow wasn’t his best weapon, Colath bested him there but he was still better than any of these. Sheer numbers though would do for them, though.

Obedient to the commands of their riders’ knees, the three horses spun on their heels to face outward, putting them back to back.

A flash of mage fire torched an arrow in flight with a precision Elon had to admire.

Jareth’s oath as a wizard prevented him from using magic against a man without it. Even the thought of turning mage fire on a man - having him roast alive - was enough to make his gorge rise. But there wasn’t anything in his oath that prevented him from using it against their weapons.

Meanwhile, Elon and Colath targeted the archers with the lethal accuracy for which Elves were known as the swordsmen closed on them.

Even so, arrows penetrated their defenses. Most fell harmlessly but not all. One creased Elon’s thigh, another Jareth’s arm… then one slipped past Jareth’s guard to catch Colath in the lower back.

The pain struck, hard and fierce, shared across the bond between Colath and Elon, the shock of it startling, the force of it catching Colath off balance and nearly driving him out of the saddle.

Fear shot through him.

On the ground? Even with his swords and uninjured he’d be more vulnerable there. Wounded, against these numbers…?

Empathetic pain flared through Elon and his heart wrenched as he turned his head, already reaching for Colath but Jareth was closer.

Instinctively, Jareth snatched at Colath’s shirt, keeping his friend in the saddle.

With his free hand he sent a burst of mage fire flaming in front of them to guard against another arrow.

Fear for Colath was piercing but the swordsmen were closing and Elon only had time for a quick glance, the sight of Jareth steadying Colath in the saddle a relief so great his vision blurred. Then Elon turned back to the fight, his bow claiming the last of the archers.

Slinging it over his back, he reached for his swords as the swordsmen burst onto the road - shedding wheat chaff as they charged.

Willing himself strength, Colath nodded thanks to Jareth and drew his swords despite the pain of the wound in his back, freeing Jareth to fight as well as he could.

Spinning his swords in his hands, Elon looked over the oncoming men and set heels to his horse.

He charged into them, Faer wheeled and spun beneath him, hooves lashing out. Colath came in behind him, matching him with only his shortsword in hand, the other clasped to the wound in his side. Blood stained his tunic and Elon’s jaw tightened fractionally in helpless fury at the sight.

None of it showed clearly or these then might have turned their focus on Colath as such men had in the past, using the true-friend and soul-bonds to wound and weaken both.

The on-coming riders were almost upon them. They were running out of time.

At Colath’s back, reduced to using his sword, Jareth hacked and cut, clearly no swordsman, yet still keeping both Colath’s and Elon’s back covered as well as he could, despite the risk to himself. The men they fought were too close for his magic.

Elon trusted Zo to keep Jareth where he could do the most good and faithful Zo did as required, kicking at anyone who came too close.

Which left Elon to do what he did very well.

It was a deadly and nearly hopeless dance of swords and horses, driving off their attackers.

Colath lashed out on each side desperately as warm blood drenched his side, soaking his trews. He and Jareth kept the swordsmen from flanking Elon, who fought like a cornered lion, slashing on every side, driving this one back with a kick, his sword cleaving the throat of another.

Even so, the riders crested the rise before the last of those around them fell.

But the last did fall.

Resolutely, Colath drew his bow, despite the wound in his back, despite the pain, training an arrow on those who approached even as Elon finished the last of those around them.

“Hold,” Elon called to those riders drawing near, “on the orders of Daran High King. You attack his Envoy.”

“Daran is a paper tiger,” one of the men shouted. “Who will tell him of what passed here when you’re dead?”

“Arlis of High Reaches?” Elon called, the man’s voice familiar from Daran’s Council. “Do you know what it is you do?”

One of the lesser Kingdoms to the North, High Reaches was one of the Kingdoms that crowded tiny Lothliann, its people straying across the Enclave’s borders time and again to take what wasn’t theirs.

Warily, the men pulled up just out of reach of Colath’s bowshot.

Jareth couldn’t imagine how much pain Colath was in, how much blood he lost with each moment he held his bow at full pull. It was as if he were poised there, a statue of an archer, unmoving, locked on those beyond.

He frantically searched for a solution, a way out for all of them that wouldn’t require him to violate his oath.

“More of my men are on their way, Aerilann,” Arlis said, leaning indolently on his saddle horn.

He looked at the dead scattered around their horses’ feet, at the blood staining Colath’s tunic.

And smiled.

“How long do you think you can hold out against us, Aerilann?” he asked.

Tall and spare, balding with only a fringe of grayish hair around his head, his face narrow, Arlis of the High Reaches was far from his own lands. He sat his saddle with the ease of many days spent in it. So far from his own lands he felt himself safe from censure for his actions. He cared little whether another took the blame so long as his own lands were secure, but he didn’t care to be called greedy for wanting some of Lothliann’s lush green lands. Few would seek to blame him for this so long as no one knew where he was this day.

“Go back to your Enclave, Elf. Forget this Agreement. Don’t draw a line in the sand you don’t want to cross.”

It would serve him well if Elon did; having an Elf - especially this one - break the Agreement, which he would do if he gave up his mission.

Even if he would have, though, Elon couldn’t have. Foresight had spoken.

The first step on this path had already been taken, for him there was no turning back or turning away. Doing so would be the death of his people as men encroached more and more on their lands with nothing to hold them back and Elon knew it. The first act of backing down or backing away would only cede power and give credence to those who fought against him.

His people would suffer if men were allowed to spread unchecked, despoiling everything they touched.

They wouldn’t die easily but they would die and then the races of Elves and Dwarves would die as well. All for the greed and hate of men like this.

Arlis hated Elves, hated Elon’s gentle people with a passion Elon couldn’t understand.

He couldn’t allow a man like this to win, not if his people were to survive.

Now was their only chance for a peaceful resolution. Even if they had to fight for it, as ironic as that was.

Few would know of this solitary battle but it must be won if the elder races were to continue.

He looked to Colath, resolute.

Colath dared not take his eyes from those before him but he didn’t need to, it was there in the bond for Elon to know.

Elon could feel the pain in his old friend, deep and terrible, the waves of weakness that battered him that he wouldn’t show to these.

Although it pained him deeply, he knew Colath would fight until his last breath.

He looked to Jareth.

These were his folk, his people.

Meeting that look, Jareth nudged Zo a little closer to Elon, making his allegiance clear to Elon as well as to Arlis and his men.

“I would have peace, Elon,” Jareth said, quietly, “even if I have to fight and die to achieve it.”

He was more than aware of the irony of their position, too.

Elon met those deep brown eyes.

Jareth was no swordsman but he was strong and sure, determined.

It was no less than Elon expected, knowing Jareth as he did. As young as he was, Jareth knew Honor as most of his kind didn’t, he had courage and strength of purpose.

All right.

“We would as soon not fight, Arlis,” he said, “but if we must fight, we will.”

He spun his swords around his hands in a glittering arc.

A challenge, if Arlis chose to take it.

Behind them, the fire spread, closed. Flame now blossomed to each side of them, hemmed them in further. Their choices narrowed.

“Last chance. Go back to Aerilann,” Arlis said. “Forget this nonsense of borders…”

Sheer hypocrisy from a man who pressed tiny Lothliann - his real motive for being here. It wouldn’t serve him to have borders set that he couldn’t encroach upon without reprisal from the High King as he did now. No more would the High King send the armies of the Kingdoms against Elves for the actions of men like Arlis, thanks to the Agreement.

An agreement Arlis had signed.

With a sigh, Elon said, nearly regretfully, “I cannot.”

Borders.

Jareth had been frantically seeking a solution. Maybe there had been one before him all along.

Casually, Arlis gestured.

A bowman behind him lifted a bow as another lit it from the torch he carried.

The arrow arched into the sky, trailing smoke.

Jareth incinerated it before it reached the sky.

“Wizard,” Arlis said, furiously, “you try me. This is none of yours. Remember who and what you are.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Arlis of the High Reaches,” Jareth said, slowly gathering power. “I’m the motherless bastard who once lived on the streets of Doncerric. A beggar that men like you kicked away with their boots.”

As no Elf would ever have done.

Only his magic had saved him from a life there, that and the kindness of his foster parents, wizards both of them.

There was shock and disgust on Arlis’s face, his lip curling in a sneer.

Jareth looked at him. “You care about that. They don’t.”

He had a plan, an idea…

Why, Elon wondered, was Arlis spending so much time talking? It wasn’t just to get his people in position, although doubtless that was part of it.

And what could they do about that? Nothing.

So, there was a specific target.

Him.

Arlis would want a quick and painless - for Arlis - resolution. He’d already lost too many men to explain away easily.

Where was the danger?

Fire closed in on every side, the snap and crackle of the flames becoming louder, concealing the movements of assassins.

“Let us pass,” Elon said. “Let it go, Arliss.”

He saw the man’s eyes slide to the left even as he sensed movement there.

As did Jareth and Colath.

Slowed by his wound, Colath didn’t react as swiftly as Jareth did.

His mind and power locked up in the spell he’d been about to cast, Jareth knew he couldn’t unleash it in time, so he did the only thing he could…and threw himself into the path of the arrow aimed at Elon’s back.

The arrow punched into him high and deep, driving into his chest. Even as he fell, Jareth looked down at the arrow that pierced him to where the fletching emerged from his tunic. Then he struck the road and the arrow protruding from his back snapped.

A second later the true depths of the pain hit and his concentration shattered.

The spell he’d been conjuring was loosed even as Elon and Colath turned in their saddles in horror to see him fall. Neither could have reached him in time to stop it.

Seeing where the arrow had taken him, Elon knew Jareth’s lung was pierced at the very least. Worse still, they couldn’t help him, not with the enemy still before them.

In the self-same motion of turning, Colath released the arrow that took the assassin. The motion jarred the arrow in Colath’s own back. Pain shot through him, clearing and sharpening his mind. Shock, he knew. If there was time, he would heal.

It didn’t look as if there would be time.

His eyes went to Elon.

Elon met that steady gaze, fear and grief for Jareth, for Colath, for all that might have been, ripping through him and then he set his heels to his horse even as Colath did.

If there was to be any hope for Jareth, for any of them, they had to move swiftly and surely…and there was little chance they would succeed.

Tossing away their bows they reached for their swords - drew them even as they bore down on the men before them. More of Arlis’s archers charged out of concealment in the wheat beside him even as they did.

Jareth, lying in the dirt and the dust of the road, dying in the street as so many had once predicted he might, thought he’d never seen anything so magnificent, so incredible, as that charge.

He saw the archers turn, their bows drawn, as Elon and Colath rode down on them, and the arrows flew…

Then his spell took hold.

An arrow caught Elon high in the shoulder. At that close a range the archer could hardly miss, but he and Colath were almost on them.

To Elon’s astonishment stones rained from the sky.

Marker stones…dozens of them.

Jareth.

Horses screamed and shied. Men shouted. He and Colath rode into their midst like scythes through wheat while they were in disarray.

Arlis dodged one marker stone that nearly crushed his skull and found himself face to face with a furious Elon of Aerilann. His own paxmen charged up to defend his left as Aerilann rained a series of blows on Arlis’s sword. Even with an arrow buried in his shoulder the Elf’s strikes made Arlis’s hand go numb. Aerilann blocked Arlis’s paxman easily, nearly thoughtlessly. His horse held off the other. One fell as Arlis watched, trying to back his horse with one hand on the reins, while others rallied to his aid.

Spinning his horse around, Colath charged into the mass of those who came running through the field like a grim reaper.

A reaper of men, his beautiful face expressionless and implacable.

Elon urged his horse between Arlis and his remaining paxman, hacking and slashing with terrible accuracy, raining blows on their swords until the paxman fell away. With a scream of terror at the grim and terrible look on Elon’s impassive face, Arlis tried to turn his horse, tried to run.

Some of Jareth’s folk believed in avenging angels. In that moment - watching Elon and Colath - he knew how they’d come to believe such a thing.

Relentless even in the face of their own pain, they fought.

Even with the pain piercing him, Jareth couldn’t help but admire them and then he tried to take a breath. Pain struck in earnest. His body arched in protest as his breath bubbled in his chest. As many times as he’d been kicked, battered and beaten as a boy, he’d never suffered pain like this. Darkness crowded his vision, yet still he watched.

His jaw set, Elon battered through Arlis’s defenders as they fought to defend their Lord, but one after another they fell to his relentless blade, as  danced and darted beneath him, giving him room to fight…and then there was only Arlis.

His hands still stinging from Elon’s blows, Arlis couldn’t run, there was no place to go and he knew it.

Desperate, he fought, tried to get past Aerilann’s swords, tried to keep to the side with the wounded shoulder but it was as if the Elf didn’t feel the wound. Any more than Arlis felt Elon’s sword slip past his guard. The punch of it into his chest widened his eyes even as he knew he was done.

Arlis of the High Reaches fell, toppling from the saddle, dead.

Spinning Faer around, Elon shouted, “Your King is dead. Arlis is dead. How many of you wish to follow him to his grave?”

A stunned silence fell over the field of wheat as they watched Arlis tumble to the road, a small puff of dust spraying up around him.

Stillness…

Not even the cry of a bird broke that terrible, pregnant silence.

Elon watched as they disappeared, turned away into the fields of grain, fading into the tall stalks that hadn’t yet begun to truly ripen, to turn silvery gold in the warm sunlight.

Impatiently, he snapped off the end of the arrow in his shoulder, fought the darkness that threatened to close around his vision before swinging a leg over the Faer’s withers to reach Colath’s side.

Colath and Jareth needed him; there was no time for his own pain.

His pale eyes stunned and weary, Colath looked down at him as Elon offered his hand.

Looking at it, Colath sighed. “This will hurt.”

“Indeed,” Elon said, his own shoulder throbbing.

Feeling the echo of pain, Colath mimicked Elon’s gesture and swung a leg over his horse’s withers to drop to the ground.

The small jar as he reached it wasn’t pleasant.

Elon was there to steady him, as always, as they always were for each other.

His vision went gray for a moment and then Colath steadied as his Elven constitution sought to heal him.

“This must go,” Elon said of the arrow, laying his hand lightly on it.

With another sigh, this of resignation, Colath nodded.

Setting himself, sensing the arrowhead buried between Colath’s ribs, Elon took a breath, knowing it would hurt Colath to do and it must be done as the arrow couldn’t stay there. With a quick twist and swift tug, Elon pulled it free.

A freshet of blood burst from the wound.

The pain was sharp, incredible. Colath nearly went to his knees as the pain and loss of blood swamped him. Already, though, his body rushed to heal him.

Carefully, Elon lowered him to the ground.

“Go,” Colath said, “see to Jareth. He still lives.”

Nodding, Elon went to kneel beside the young wizard, looking with horrified dismay at the arrow that pierced him.

The arrow that Jareth had taken for him, to save his life.

That sacrifice pained him but not nearly as much as the arrow pained Jareth, who didn’t have Elven magic to aid his healing.

He didn’t need to ask why Jareth had done it, knowing Jareth shared his vision. He understood why the street urchin from the streets of Doncerric knew justice better than those who had never known injustice.

“Jareth,” Elon said, his throat tight, sensing how tenuous Jareth’s hold on life was.

His friend drowned in his own blood.

Those deep brown eyes opened to look up at him.

So young for a man. As a wizard he would live longer than most of his folk, if he survived this day, this journey.

Carefully, Elon slid his arm beneath Jareth’s shoulders, lifted him up enough to reach the arrow.

“This will hurt,” he warned.

Jareth gave him a look. He coughed, spraying blood across Elon’s tunic and nodded.

To Elon’s amazement there was a touch of apology in the young wizard’s hazed brown eyes. For the mess. Elon went still and then took a breath.

“Hold on,” Elon said, “Trust me, my friend, and don’t let go of life. Fight for me.”

Jareth’s heart fluttered. The words stunned him.

“Friend?” he whispered.

“Yes, Jareth,” Elon said, firmly, “Friend. In the truest sense of the word. I wouldn’t lose you.”

Something within Jareth twisted even as something inside him grew stronger.

Going to one knee, his beautiful face paler than normal, Colath joined them, a hand on Jareth’s shoulder.

“Nor I, Jareth.”

Those brown eyes went from one to the other, from Elon to Colath.

Jareth wanted to weep.

And struggled to take a bubbling breath. He set himself, and nodded.

He looked at Elon as his friend’s strong hand curled around the arrow that protruded from his chest and steeled himself. Instead of sending him into oblivion though, the motion of pulling it seemed to shock him into greater clarity. The remainder of the arrow slid out of him, pain spearing through him in an agony so great his body arched and a gurgling cry tore from his drowning lungs, spraying blood everywhere.

Elon almost lost him, he felt him fade but Jareth fought and clawed for life.

Even in the face of his own injury, Colath was beside him, lending him strength.

Jareth’s pain became Elon’s as he merged with his friend, as he took the young wizard’s pain as his own. He subverted the agony, sought the rhythm that was Jareth his friend, the music of him when he was whole, the sense and sound of him deep, true and clear. He drew energy from the earth through himself until he felt incandescent, suffused with light and then he poured it into Jareth.

For Jareth the agony was nearly unendurable. Darkness tried to bury him, to drag him down, but he fought it, fought it with every fiber of his being.

Friends.

Warmth suffused him, poured through his body like a flood tide, washing the pain away with it. Warmth and something else. Magic of a kind he’d never known. He could almost feel his muscles, nerves and skin knit to become one again. A sound that was almost like music whispered in his head, a harmony that tried to be and then was clear. It rang clear. Like a bell inside him, the sound swelling.

With his head cradled in the crook of Elon’s arm, he watched in amazement as power surged through him and the wound in his chest knitted before his eyes.

Stunned, Jareth looked up into Elon’s strong, stern face.

“You can Heal,” he whispered in astonishment.

No one knew that Elves could Heal. Healers were almost unknown among men and those few lived a life of hell. They could only heal so many.

If word got out that Elves could Heal, they might very well have another war on their hands.

Elon nodded, looking at him. “I can.”

In that moment Jareth knew exactly how much Elon of Aerilann trusted him.

Friend.

Jareth looked up into Elon’s dark steady gaze.

“Know this,” Colath said, gently, because Elon wouldn’t. “As hard as it is to do, our Healers are enjoined from healing Men. Healers are too few among us as well. Even with all the healing our bodies can do, even our folk must sometimes have a Healer - fighting with the Borderlands creatures or even accidents cause damage such that we cannot spare the lost energy of even one. Having Elon out in the Kingdoms is already a sacrifice.”

Elon had healed him, Jareth.

Nodding, Jareth nodded weakly. He understood all too well what Colath said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t tell.”

“My thanks,” Elon said. “I never doubted, but it would be…difficult.”

More difficult than what he was about to do but only by a slight degree.

Elon looked at Colath.

“Aerilann,” he said.

Giving Elon a look, eyebrows lifting, Colath allowed his mouth to twitch a little. Amused.

“This should be…enlightening.”

Jareth looked from one to the other warily as they helped him into the saddle, wondering what they were up to.

“I would go home,” Elon said, wearily, feeling every inch of his own wounds, of stretched muscles and cuts he hadn’t marked at the time.

They would have to heal of their own. Healers couldn’t heal themselves.

In the distance there was a clamor, alarming at first, all of them fearing another attack, but it was only the farmers come out to battle the fire with blankets and beaters.

Smoke spiraled into the sky as the fire spread.

This, though, was a magic Jareth could do. With a gesture and a soft incantation he dampened the fire, drew off its energy before he slumped wearily in the saddle.

It was as well that Arlis was already dead, once the farmers found out who’d set the blaze.

Chapter Five

It was a pleasure and a joy for Elon to draw close to Aerilann again, to ride through the high, thick green and gold grasses that would soon be the buffer zone between Aerilann and those who would take from her, who would violate her.

This though was only the buffer zone, ahead were the towering boles of the trees of the wood. Sunlight speared down through the thick green canopy, the outer edge of the great forest that was Aerilann and her environs.

Even now, Elon could lift his head and inhale the scent of home, the thick powdery duff that lay beneath the trees, the sharp tang of the pines, and a whisper of flowers. Here beneath the great outer trees the air was slightly cooler. In the depths of the forest, though, it was always comfortable with soft breezes to refresh body and spirit.

Jareth kept waiting for them to stop, to set camp.

There was a haze, almost a fog, which seemed to rise up out of the ground around the base of the trees, not surprising given how cool it must be in there.

But they didn’t stop, not even at the edge of the fog. A light tingle of magic brushed over his skin as they moved through it. A Veil of some kind, then. A magical protection.

Fear touched him. Not of where he was going, but of the responsibility, of the undeserved honor they did him.

“Elon,” Jareth protested.

They were entering Aerilann, truly Aerilann. An Elven Enclave, where men didn’t go. Men, much less wizards…

What would the Elves within think of Elon, of he and Colath, for bringing him among them?

“It will be well, Jareth,” Elon said quietly. “It’s time for this, and if any, I would it was a friend first.”

That pierced and silenced him.

He looked up, around, and then there wasn’t room for anything but wonder.

His breath left him in a sigh of sheer awe. His heart ached.

In all his life, Jareth had never even imagined much less seen anything as lovely as Aerilann. He’d didn’t have anything to compare it to, although the wizard’s Collegium came close. All his life he’d yearned for something like this; a place where he’d belong, where he’d be welcome. He understood what it was to have such a place and then to have to leave it.

The Elven Enclave went beyond magic - beyond imagined - for it was real and it was all around him. He was surrounded by the cool green of the deep forest and yet the air was warm and filled with the sweet scent of flowers, soft against the skin. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. It was refreshingly cool. To his astonishment he could see people move above him in the trees. Elves walked along flowered pathways between the trees, thick vines stretching from one tree to another to form a bridge that these folk nimbly traversed.

In the clearings carefully cultivated bushes and small trees grew in the light that streamed down between larger trees.

Much larger trees.

At the base of some of the trees were verandas, for want of a better word. Stone or wood floors were encircled by a railing and roofed by wood shingles or thatch thickly entwined with flowering vines. The vines twined around the railings and cutwork braces that supported the roofs. The air was filled with the light or spicy scent of their flowers.

Jareth bent his head back and back to look up into the branches.

A stairway twined around the bole each tree, circled around it, rising up into the lower branches where floors had been created. Nearly concealed by the thickly leaved branches, these living spaces were set among them; bright walls of Elven-silk fluttered in a myriad of colors and glowed like flowers among the limbs and leaves.

Somewhere someone played a flute or a pipe lightly, a few voices trilled wordlessly to the tune as soft laughter echoed among the branches. It was a lilting song - light yet complicated.

Here in the understory were copses of smaller trees or groupings of flowering bushes. Pathways and trails ran between them through which Elves walked, some in conversation, others to more purpose.

Folk, Elves, rode to intercept them but Jareth was too enraptured with Aerilann to notice. He’d have been happy with just this glimpse. Only dimly did he register the discussion, however mild, that raged around him.

Looking at him, at the look in his eyes, Elon knew that whatever would come was worth it for Jareth’s sigh alone.

Elon allowed himself a small smile at the look on Jareth’s face.

He glanced at Colath, who smiled at Jareth’s dumbfounded expression and nodded back.

“Elon,” an Elf said, reasonably. “He’s a man.”

“As I’m aware,” Elon said, “He’s also a wizard. Still, he will enter. He’s my friend.”

“Mine as well,” Colath added.

“No man has ever entered an Elven Enclave,” another said.

“There is a first time for anything,” Elon said, “although I believe that the men and women who were our allies during the wizard wars did enter our Enclaves.”

“We’re not at war,” another said.

“For which you can thank this man,” Elon said, “Or else we might have been. He saved my life at the risk of his own and nearly died for it.”

“As he did for me,” Colath said.

That silenced the opposition as shock reverberated through them at the thought of the loss of their First and his true-friend.

Jareth still couldn’t believe he was here, in Aerilann. Where men didn’t go.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, reverently.

Suddenly a dozen Elven eyes were on him.

He swallowed hard and looked back at them.

For a moment he was dumbstruck - his throat too tight to speak. He hadn’t meant to say anything, it had just come out.

Before them was a great stone veranda ringed with a wood and vine railing. From above, flowers appeared to drip like beads of water from vines that twined through the stone carvings of the roof. A circular railing twined around the trunk of one of the largest trees, it spiraled up into the branches to the balconied, silk-walled apartments above, the silk the color of turquoise and jade.

Colath looked at Jareth and nodded as Elon folded his hands on the saddle horn with a small smile on his usually stern face.

“Thank you,” Jareth said, simply. “For letting me see this.”

Among that empathic people, the depth of his feeling was clear.

It stilled them.

Then one, a woman, reached across their horses to lay a hand over Jareth’s “I am Sareth. Second among equals. You are welcome here, Jareth of the Kingdoms.”

Slowly, Jareth straightened in the saddle with a small apologetic smile and shook his head.

“No, Sareth. With my thanks but I am Jareth, wizard. I serve no one, am beholden to none. None command me, I serve all and everyone, Elf, Dwarf or man at need. I am Jareth… Just Jareth.”

Now Elon understood more clearly what the wizard Dorcet had seen in Jareth and why he’d sent him. They shared the same vision but Jareth was the heart of it.

A whisper of foresight went through him, bound in struggle, grief and triumph.

The way would not be easy, nor would it be straight, nor was it even assured, but hope for them all glimmered on the horizon.

Swinging off his horse, Elon tossed the reins over the railing of his veranda.

He was home, finally and at last.

Turning, he looked to Colath, who let out a sigh of satisfaction and relief as he looked around for a moment in satisfaction before swinging down from Chai.

Bewildered, a little uncertain, Jareth dismounted.

The horses trotted off in the direction of the paddock, to be untacked, brushed down and freed to graze by whoever served at the stables.

“Come Jareth,” Elon said and offered his hand in the traditional greeting. “Welcome to Aerilann and my home.”

Jareth’s breath caught as he looked at Elon, knowing what it was he did.

He let out a breath with a glance to Colath, and then, for the first time, clasped Elon’s arm as friend to friend.

Something seemed to lock and seal between them, a promise, from Elon to him and back.

Colath reached out, too, then, offered his free hand in the same way.

Straightening, his chin lifting, Jareth took it and felt the same sense of closure, of rightness.

Looking at them, at Jareth and Colath, a frisson of foresight whispered through and over Elon’s skin, a soft whisper of sudden sure knowledge.

Slowly, he nodded as he let it move through him.

Jareth, wizard and man, would be a part of his future for many years to come…in what way, what manner? Friend, companion, advisor…

Some of their folk arrived with food, Sareth joining them for the briefing.

Hitching himself up on the stone railing Jareth made himself comfortable as Colath crossed his arms to lean a shoulder against a post while Elon paced - his head lowered thoughtfully - as he considered their options and began to outline them for the others.

Looking around, Elon had a sudden strong sense of rightness. Something lifted within him, a sense of something beckoning.

There would be sorrow and pain, joy and pleasure, struggle and triumph. Nothing was sure, but they would try and keep trying. Until there was peace.

Elon said, “There are still the remaining boundaries to be set….”

The Coming Storm

#####

About the author

As an old favorite author used to say “I’m five foot two, blonde-haired and blue eyed, the rest is subject to change without notice.” Currently Valerie is happily ensconced in the wilds of central Ohio farm country with two dogs, two cats and an African clawed frog for company as she writes. The frog doesn’t say much. You can contact her through her webpages:

www.valeriedouglasbooks.com
www.vjdevereauxbooks.com

Other Novels by Valerie Douglas

Fantasy

The Coming Storm series:

The Coming Storm – A Epic Fantasy – in the tradition of J.R.R. Tolkien’s the Lord of the Rings trilogy, comes the epic tale of Elon of Aerilann, Elven swordmaster, his true-friend Colath, the archer Jalila and the wizard Jareth, as they, with the aid of Ailith Heir of Riverford, try to discover why the creatures of the borderlands do battle with them, and why?

A Convocation of Kings – sequel to The Coming Storm. A shadow has fallen over the Kingdoms and once again Elon, Colath, Jareth and Jalila are called to answer it.  One ally is lost but another returns while a terrible tragedy nearly costs them a third. Now a member of the ruling Council, Elon of Aerilann and his companions, Colath, Jareth and Jalila are forced to fight for the Alliance they've given everything to preserve, even as a breath of hope is offered...

Heart of the Gods – In search of the ancient Tomb of the Djinn, archaeologist Ky Farrar awakens its lethal, and lovely, guardian. Unfortunately, Ky isn’t the only one in search of the tomb and the danger to the world that lies within it.

Servant of the Gods – Orphaned as a child, Irisi became a mercenary to survive. Captured by the Egyptian army and made the spoils of war, she finds herself drawn to their commander. Though the attraction is mutual even he can't save her from enslavement and she's forced to fight in the ring for entertainment. In a desperate attempt to regain her freedom she throws herself on the mercy of the Gods, only to discover that her fate is written in prophecy...

Romance:

The Millersburg Series

Irish Fling – Ali was the smart one, but brains didn’t stop her from crashing and burning. A desire to connect with her roots takes her to Ireland, and a chance meeting with internet mogul Aidan O’Connell. Even brilliant Ali with her nearly photographic memory doesn’t see the danger lurking when she sees the wrong thing.

Dirty Politics – Returning to her hometown, practical Cam Kenyon discovers that teenage crush Noah Denton is running for D.A. When she discovers that his opponent is going to indulge in dirty politics, she throws her support to him, accidentally resurrecting an old enemy.

Director’s Cut – When bad-boy director Jack Tyler comes to town to rediscover his passion with the local community theater group, teacher and theater geek Molly has to decide whether to take a chance on him. When his past catches up with him and he seems to be returning to his old bad habits, she has to decide whether to fight his demons alongside him.

Two Up – Sculptor and welder Jesse was always the wild child, her only family her three friends. A chance meeting with novelist Mitch Donovan gives her a chance to make a new life. For Mitch meeting Jesse gives him new inspiration, but that new inspiration comes at a terrifying price.

Lucky Charm – When private investigator Matt Morrison’s best friend Bill is murdered, all evidence seems to point at his company, but Matt’s every attempt at entry is thwarted. Violently. When pretty Ariel O’Donnell comes unexpectedly to his rescue, he resolves to keep her out of what is clearly a dangerous situation. Unfortunately, it seems Ariel is already involved and the forces set in motion by Bill’s death are closing around her.

As V. J. Devereaux –

Cooking Class

Demon’s Embrace

available from Ellora’s Cave Publishing

Cherry’s Jubilee

Special Delivery

In the Flesh

Demon’s Kiss

Other Fantasy Novels Published by the Alexandria Publishing Group

Paul Kater

Hilda the Wicked Witch series

Hilda the wicked witch

Hilda - Snow White revisited

Hilda - The Challenge

Hilda and Zelda

Hilda - Cats

Hilda - Lycadea

Hilda - Back to School

Hilda - Dragon Master (coming in Jan. 2012)

Steampunk

Aeroparts factory

Bactine

Lily Marin - three short steampunk stories

Terry C. Simpson

Epic Fantasy

Aegis of the Gods Series

Etchings of Power (Bk1) - Out now

Shade's Forging - Prequel - Coming Soon

Uprising - (Bk 2) - Coming Soon

Urban/Dark Fantasy

Necrosis - Coming Soon