Of Farewells and Far Strides

  Guard your heart when traveling abroad, fair elf. The world is so much larger than your forest. After you’ve had a taste of it, you might just find yourself swept up in the wonder of it all.

  — Ship’s Captain Tom Black, I.M.S. Sovereign Might

  Aehyl awoke, bathed in sweat from the dreams that had plagued her since returning to Vistadora.

  It was the morning of the fourth gathering for Vectra, and she had made it a point to attend each one. Though she hadn’t known the poor druid well, she felt a strange obligation after finding her remains in the glade. Her parents seemed comforted by her presence at the rites, but for Aehyl, it was something she needed. Closure, perhaps. Or penance.

  She took a steadying breath and looked around her small shelter, reminding herself that she was safe.

  The room was modest and quiet. A small chest stood against the north wall beside her washstand and mirror. An elegant but simple pitcher rested there, along with a lavender-infused bar of soap. Her bed, nearly spanning the width of the room, still held the impression of her restless sleep. A few small paintings adorned the walls, gifts from her mother, painted with love if not with skill.

  Unlike most other races, elves rarely cluttered their living spaces with odd trinkets or ornaments. There were exceptions, of course, but she was not one of them. Nor was her mother, Philia.

  She rose and stepped to the washstand. Pouring fresh water into the basin, she bathed her face and neck, savoring the calming scent of lavender as she wiped away the remnants of the nightmare. Then, silently, she dressed in the ceremonial grays reserved for the final day of death rites.

  Looking into the mirror, she studied her reflection. She had changed in the past year.

  Her hair was not quite black, but rather a deep, burnished brown. Occasional, soft brown highlights laced through it. Her green eyes, perched above a slight, upturned nose, looked more tired than they used to. She had inherited her mother’s full, pursed lips.

  She was thin, but not frail. Her shoulders were narrow but carried quiet strength. Her chest was modest, but her hips had grown fuller. She was beginning to grow into her womanhood.

  She frowned at the mirror, catching herself in the act of vanity. Then softened.

  The mirror was a gift from her father, one of the few among their kind to own such a luxury. He had given it to her a short time before he died.

  He had been a trader, specializing in rare goods from the humans who lived along the borders of the Crystal-Mist and the lesser kingdoms of Venetia and Cynyr. Two years after giving her the mirror, he was killed by bandits who raided a caravan he had joined.

  He died trying to protect the humans he did business with. They hadn’t bothered with proper security of their own, and her father’s men—capable though they were—couldn’t make up for the risk.

  Aehyl’s hands clenched against the edge of the washstand.

  She would carry his memory into the rite today. And maybe, in some small way, that would be enough.

  She set her brush aside after counting one hundred strokes and finished dressing.

  There were still a few hours yet until the horn declared the time for the fourth ritual, but she didn’t want to return once she’d left.

  Just as she made her way to the door of the shelter, a single rap sounded, sharp and unexpected.

  At this hour…?

  She opened the door and was surprised to find Grimus standing on the threshold.

  The old elf wore a long brown robe cinched by a rope belt, and his well-worn traveling boots were already dusted from the morning paths. A backpack hung from his wiry right shoulder, and his walking staff rested crisply in his left hand.

  His long, blond-and-white hair had been hastily combed, and dark purple bags sagged under his eyes, he looked utterly spent.

  “Matters have come to our attention, young one. Change quickly. We journey to Jerrico with all due haste,” he said without preamble.

  “What of Vectra’s rituals?” Aehyl asked, caught off guard.

  But Grimus either hadn’t heard her or didn’t intend to slow down.

  “Meet me at the gate. I will be there as soon as I can find Portean.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He turned away, but not before she caught the tremor in his movements. Despite his exhaustion, a peculiar urgency radiated from him, propelling his steps, quickening his breath.

  Fear, she realized. He is afraid.

  She had never seen Grimus look older. Nor had she seen him moved to such haste.

  “I must find my mother and say goodbye,” she called after him. “And I doubt Draefus will let me chide him into staying behind again—at least, not for some time.”

  “Find her quickly,” Grimus replied over his shoulder. “We’ve come across information that may be vital to the survival of the lands!”

  He ignored her mention of Draefus entirely and vanished down the path, a winded force of nature.

  Aehyl changed into her traveling garb, knee-high boots, deerskin hose, and a forest-green tunic woven from strong, weather-resistant fibers. Over this, she pulled a matching cloak, clasped at the collar, and fastened her knife securely to her thigh.

  Luckily, she had taken Kreadus’s warning to heart and already packed most of what she would need. She added her hairbrush and a bundle of dried fruit she’d bought the night before, then slung the bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the cool morning light.

  She found her mother near the bubbling spring that branched away from the Tower Tree in four directions, marking the heart of Vistadora. Philia stood silently, gazing into the rippling water.

  As always, she wore a simple gray mourning gown, the same she had worn since Aehyl’s father died all those years ago. When she heard Aehyl approach, she smoothed her skirt and absently twirled a dark strand of hair between her fingers.

  “You are leaving, daughter.”

  Philia’s voice trembled, and though she fought to remain composed, tears slipped freely down her cheeks.

  Before Aehyl could speak, she hurried on.

  “I won’t stop you from carrying out your duties. Still…” she swallowed, voice dry, “know that I love you, and that I’m proud of who you’ve become. Your—your father would be proud, too.” Her shoulders trembled as she gave a shaky laugh through her weeping. “He always did love to travel.”

  Astonished, Aehyl frowned. “How do you know? Did the Circle speak with you, or Portean?”

  Philia only shook her head and stepped forward, smiling tightly. She wrapped Aehyl in a warm, trembling hug.

  “I will return to you as fast as I can,” Aehyl whispered, trying to imagine herself already home again. A sudden dread coiled in her chest. It was the distinct, unshakable sense that she would never see her mother again.

  With unexpected intensity, she clung tighter. “Besides,” she said, brushing the thought away, “by midsummer I’ll be back, and we’ll have time to reconnect.”

  Philia smiled, a slow, distant smile. “Last night, I dreamed of you standing before the Mistress of the Forest. She took you in her arms... and then led you to her father, Aric.”

  She paused, as if weighing her words carefully. “There will be danger on your journey. Be strong, my daughter. You go with many blessings.”

  Then she laughed softly. “And watch out for Grimus. He’s not as young as he pretends to be. And try not to let Portean and Draefus cause too much mischief.”

  Aehyl wanted to say something more, anything to pierce through the strange feeling hanging between them, but couldn’t find the words. After another long embrace, they parted.

  Aehyl lingered, studying her mother’s face, etching every detail into her memory. This moment matters, she thought. I have to remember it.

  She gave Philia’s hand one last squeeze, then turned and walked away, her steps stiff and awkward beneath the weight of unspoken words.

  Her unsettling farewell behind her, Aehyl didn’t have to search long for her bear-child. As expected, she found Draefus napping in his hut.

  Looking at the enormous, snoring beast, she briefly considered leaving him behind. But she knew the moment he awoke to find her gone, he’d be heartbroken.

  Draefus snorted awake the moment Aehyl placed a hand on his thick shoulder. After a few hearty yawns and loud, lip-smacking stretches, the massive bear was ready to follow his mother.

  He didn’t even glance at the two impatient elves who had appeared in the doorway of his oversized shelter. With exaggerated dignity, Draefus lumbered out into the open, as if to declare that they were now free to proceed, on his terms.

  The lean, sharp-eyed ranger standing beside the bear offered a crooked, bemused smirk. A new Trueflight—one of the rare, magically crafted bows from Bellador’s Bows—rested across his back, its graceful curves gleaming faintly with enchantment. A matching quiver of his signature arrows hung at his side. He wore thin, hardened leather armor and a clasped travel cloak that partially concealed the twin blades sheathed beneath it. His travel pack, now fully mended after their journey, bulged with carefully organized provisions.

  Grimus, less amused, looked tempted to give the enormous creature a swat with his staff, but thought better of it.

  “How are you, Aehyl?” Portean asked, scratching the thick tufts behind Draefus’s ears.

  The bear, clearly delighted by the ranger’s appearance, stretched his neck as far as it would go to encourage the grooming. A deep, contented moan rumbled from his throat as he pawed at the ground like an eager cub.

  Laughing at the fool, Aehyl offered the ranger a warm smile. “I am well, Wild One.”

  The nickname had followed Portean since his youth, earned for his disdain of city life and his natural talent for war. His blade-work was unmatched in all of Crystal-Mist, and Aehyl doubted any other race could produce a warrior like him, least of all among the humans they now approached.

  It wasn’t that Aehyl disliked humans. The truth was, she had known very few. She simply lacked enough experience to form a true opinion.

  Still, through her studies, she’d learned that humans were seldom as skilled in either warfare or magic as elves. Their brief lives played a part, but so too did their restlessness, their hasty, fevered desire to act before thinking.

  Before Portean could answer, a polite cough sounded behind them.

  Grimus stood there, unsmiling. He gave a single, silent gesture, sharp, expectant. It was time.

  Draefus let out a low grumble, clearly disappointed that his grooming session was being cut short. He cast the old druid a baleful glare before lumbering to Aehyl’s side, dutiful as ever.

  Without further words, the four departed through the main gate of Vistadora. Their passage went largely unnoticed, save for a few sleepy guards who offered nods or quiet bows.

  But someone else felt them leave.

  Deep within the Tower Tree, Kreadus stirred. The old druid’s nature-bound senses had long since grown beyond the need for sight, and now they whispered to him of change. His heart tightened.

  It was Krodus speaking through him again, his father’s voice, clear in that strange way only the dead could be. Still, the conviction behind it was his own: The girl is more than she seems.

  Aehyl was gifted, more gifted than any young elf he could remember. And her path would not be easy. Before peace, there would be hardship. Darkness.

  He thought again of their visitor from the other night, how the great archmage had come to the Oakspace, stripped of his usual grandeur, and spoken grave truths without flourish or embellishment.

  There had been no pride in his words, and no shame—just the weight of inevitability. Kreadus knew the kind. Truth, he mused darkly. And truth, when it chooses not to lie, is the deadliest thing of all.

  The darkness was rising. He could feel its pressure at the edges of the world.

  “Go cautiously, young one,” he whispered into the stillness. “And beware dark agents.”

  With a sigh, the ancient druid turned and retreated into the Tower Tree’s depths. He had preparations to make before the fourth gathering’s mourning rites began. The rites would not end here, not this day, nor the next.

  He feared they were only beginning.