Chapter 9: A Much-Needed Reckoning

On the way back to the caravan, the hunters stopped to check each of their traps. Over half of them were filled with small game such as rabbits and virrins, so by the time they broke out of the woods, Spirit and Bellirn were covered in sweat and staggering under their load.

The other elves had made a fire and now sat around it, deep in conversation. As the pair stumbled over, the elves turned to watch. Lilten’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he caught sight of the bleak-wraith dangling between them. Standing, he strode over and grabbed some of the meat off of their backs. Gratefully, Bellirn stretched and groaned. “Thanks for the hand.”

Lilten nodded, depositing the bodies in a pile next to his seat. The elf woman with blonde hair sidled over to inspect the wraith. Kneeling at its side, she turned it over and inspected the burn score. The flow of smoke had abated soon before they made it to the caravan, but the stench lingered on. She seemed to take no notice however, and spoke to Bellirn while still scrutinizing the blackened flesh.

“We can easily cut around the burn. The bleak-wraith is a veritable goldmine of alchemical supplies.” Standing, she turned to look at Bellirn, awe evident in her voice. “However did you manage to kill it?”

Bellirn stared at her solemnly. “I didn’t Elissay. The boy did.” He gestured at Spirit.

Elissay gaped at Spirit. “You cannot be serious! He is but a human youth, with no magical talent and little combat training.” She knelt in front of Spirit and gazed up into his eyes. “Is what Bellirn says true?”

Spirit stepped back unconsciously. “Yes. Here, look.” He held out the ruined dagger.

Elissay gingerly took the proffered weapon and gazed at it as Spirit recounted the events in the clearing. When he got to the point where the bleak-wraith had him cornered, he said, “I didn’t know what to do, so I set the blade on fire and stabbed the wraith.” At this point Spirit noticed all of the elves were staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. A blush crept into his cheeks, and he looked down at his shoes. “I guess I just got lucky,” he finished lamely.

Tentatively, he looked up again into Elissay’s face. To his surprise, a reluctant smile graced her lovely features. “To kill a bleak-wraith at your age, even one this small, is astounding. But armed only with a dagger and instinct,” she shook her head. “That is unheard of. Obviously, there is quite a bit more to you than meets the eye.” She gave him a long, searching look, then shook her head again and stood.

Spirit let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. Boy, these elves could be unnerving! He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head. Why did the others seem so surprised when he told them how he killed it?  All he did was summon fire, and he had shown them he could do that. Shrugging mentally, he turned his attention to the others.

Lilten and Bellirn were crouched over the bleak-wraith, knives and other strange alchmical tools in hand. Elissay and the other elves were seated in a circle around the pile of game animals, skinning the little bodies and setting them to roast over the fire. Deciding Bellirn and Lilten knew what they were doing and would not need his help, Spirit trotted over to the fire and sat down next to the other elf male. He had sandy brown hair that stuck up in clumps all over his scalp, and his gray eyes bubbled with barely contained laughter.

When Spirit sat, the man looked over at him. After a second of hesitation, Spirit laid his palm over his heart and inclined his head slightly, just as Bellirn had done when he introduced himself.  

The man’s eyes widened, then a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and he laid his palm across his own chest. “I’m Kelken,” he said.

Spirit nodded, pleased he had initiated conversation so easily. “Spirit.”

Kelken nodded back, then returned his attention to the rabbit in his hands. Spirit reached out and grabbed a virrin from the pile. Then he reached back and drew his old hunting knife from its pouch. The old leather grip felt good in his hands, a familiar thing in a strange place.

After several minutes in which no one spoke, Spirit said to no one in particular, “I’ve always loved skinning the animals after a hunt. In my village, it was a time for the hunters to gather together and talk, so I hope none of you mind if I do.”

Kelken chuckled, and the other elf woman smiled. Encouraged, Spirit continued. “I never got introduced to you.” he said to the black-haired woman. “What is your name?”

She looked up from the squirrel she was skinning. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were such a deep blue they were almost black. A cascade of midnight-black hair rippled down her narrow back. “My full name is a bit too long to be used in conversation, but you may call me Bella.”

Spirit gave her a small wave. “Nice to meet you Bella.”

The remainder of the chore passed in silence.

When they had finished skinning and gutting all of the meat, Kelken, Bella and Elissay rose and made their way over to the woods. Knowing what they were planning to do, Spirit followed.

After walking several yards into the border, each of them climbed a tree and broke off a straight, sturdy branch to use as a spit. Returning to the fire, they tore off the leaves and shoots, shaved the bark, and spitted the gutted animals on the sticks. They then propped the skewers up over the fire and waited for them to cook. While the others sat and stared into the fire, Spirit took the viscera and buried it several yards into the woods, away from camp.

By the time he returned, the sun shone high overhead, showering the earth with the warmth only summer can bring. Birds called to each other from the depths of the forest. The horses had been fit with their bridles and tethered to the wagons.  llirn had joined the group around the fire. Bella and Lilten were sitting on the same log, their heads together, pouring over a thick book that sat in Lilten’s lap. Kelken appeared to be telling some type of story, gesturing wildly about, and Bellirn and Elissay were laughing hysterically.

When Bellirn caught sight of Spirit he waved jovially. “Hello Spirit! I was wondering where you had gotten to.”

All conversation ceased almost instantly. Lilten and Bella looked up from their massive tome, and Kelken paused in mid-gesture, his arms held above his head. But either Bellirn didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. He patted the log beside him, smiling. “Come, sit down.”

Spirit ambled over and sat beside Bellirn, suddenly feeling very shy. Once he sat, the other elves went back to chatting with their neighbors, but occasionally their gaze would flicker over to him. Grimacing, Spirit tried to ignore them and turned to Bellirn. “So what type of ingredients did you get from the bleak-wraith?”

Bellirn laughed and shrugged. “I have no honest clue. Lilten and Bella are our resident alchemists. You’ll have to ask them.”

“Ok.” Reaching forward, Spirit grabbed one of the spits over the fire. After offering a quick prayer to the gods, he began munching happily on his breakfast. The meat was cooked and seasoned to perfection, and Spirit ignored the sideways glances as he ate.

By the time Spirit laid his spit down on the grass in front of him, the rest of the group was finishing up their meal. Kelken lay on his back, staring up into the cloudless blue sky. Elissay sat with her eyes closed, a peaceful half-smile on her face. Bellirn was eating the final few bites of his virrin, and Lilten and Bella continued to pore over their huge book.

Spirit took a deep, calming breath. This was his best chance, and he knew deep down he had better take it. But still, he was scared.

Pushing aside his fear, Spirit turned to Elissay. “Elissay, can I ask you something?”

Lilten and Bella’s whispered conversation stopped short, and Spirit knew that all the other elves had to be listening. I suppose it’s better this way, he thought resignedly.

Slowly, Elissay opened her eyes and fixed Spirit with an icy stare. “I suppose.”

Spirit grimaced inwardly. He had been expecting a reaction like this, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Bravely he continued. “Why is it that you all seem to… well…” he glanced down at his feet, then looked around the circle. “Hate me?”

Utter silence greeted his words. Kelken sat up on his elbows and stared at Spirit. Lilten and Bella closed their tome quietly and set it aside. And Bellirn just tried not to smile at the boy’s audacity.

It took Elissay a moment to answer. “To be perfectly frank?” She shrugged and regarded him coldly. “It is because you are human.”

The answer hit Spirit like a punch in the stomach. Why should his species have anything to do with how they treated him? It wasn’t fair!

Fighting to keep his voice level, Spirit asked, “And what does that have to do with anything?”

She smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “You do not know? Have you not heard of your kind’s hideous betrayal?”

“What betrayal?” Spirit asked angrily.

Her smile grew slightly predatory. “Let me educate you. Long ago, when the sorcerer Malum was marshaling his armies in the dark depths of the Daggerwood, your Emperor had news of the gathering forces just outside our borders, and yet neglected to tell us. He allowed Malum to grow his soldiers to such a terrible strength that none could stand against them. Not even the might of the elves.”

“When king Valorian finally got word of the sorcerer’s plans, he made a stronghold deep in the caves of the Valus Mountains, and there he hid every child from across the islands, protected by several battalions of soldiers.”

Suddenly her bright green eyes filled with tears, and her voice broke. Angrily, she wiped the tears away and continued. “And of course you know what happened next.”

Spirit nodded sadly. Malum’s armies had swept across the elven lands like a flood, killing and burning everywhere they went. Hesitantly, he asked, “And you…?”

She nodded to his unspoken question. “Yes. I was just barely out of infancy at the time, and I did not want to leave my mother and father. My village lay at the foot of the mountains, and every morning, I crawled out to the cave entrance and looked down upon the collection of buildings, searching for a familiar face.” Again her lilting voice broke. “One day, as I knelt staring at my home, I saw my parents walk out onto the main street. My heart was filled with joy at the sight, and I yelled and screamed and waved frantically at them.” Her words assumed a bitter tone. “I wonder what I would’ve done, if I’d known what would come next.”

“Out of nowhere, Malum’s forces charged into the village. Undead warriors rushed down main street, and the villagers crumpled like grass. Screams rent the quiet morning air, and I sat petrified as I watched my parents—”

She stopped, tears pouring down her face. This time she did not wipe them, and they coursed down her skin like tiny rivers. She opened her mouth to continue, then closed her eyes and shook her head. The tears continued to flow silently down her face, then she buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Spirit found, to his surprise, that he had been crying as well. Rather then wipe them away, he knelt in front of the weeping elf and gently placed his hands on her knees.

Slowly, she looked up at his face. Her green eyes swam with tears, and she looked so vulnerable and lost, it was all Spirit could do to not stop crying again. Chokingly, Spirit whispered, “Elissay. I am so sorry.” Then, before he could actually think about what he was about to do, he hugged her.

For one terrifying second, she tensed beneath his embrace, as if she was about to throw him off. But then she wrapped her arms around him as well, and her body shook with renewed sobs. Spirit just sat there and held her, and he cried quietly as well.

After several seconds they broke apart, Elissay drying her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. She smiled again at Spirit, but this smile was not cold and calculating. This smile was warm and thankful.

Her voice was thick from the tears, but steady as she said, “Thank you. I apologize for my earlier treatment of you. It was wrong for me to blame you for the actions of your ancestors. And I see now that you are singularly unlike any human I have ever met.”

Spirit nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. “Thanks,” he managed to croak. He wiped away the tears with his hand.

Abruptly Spirit noticed that the entire campsite had gone deathly quiet. All of the elves were staring openly at the pair of them. Kelken’s jaw had dropped, but he didn’t seem to notice. Lilten’s eyes were wide with surprise, and Bella had a hand over her mouth. And Bellirn just smiled at Spirit, his own eyes glistening. When he caught Spirit looking, he gave him a slight nod. Spirit grinned.

Standing, Elissay brushed off her dress and turned to the rest of the group. “What are you staring at? Come on, we should be on the road!”

Hastily, the three other elves jumped up with a bunch of hurried “Yes Elissay”s, and “Sorry Elissay”s.

As they scurried off to the wagons, Elissay gave Spirit a little wink. Spirit grinned and laughed. Then the tall elf maiden strode off to her wagon, and Bellirn put a hand on Spirit’s shoulder.

Spirit turned to Bellirn and was surprised to find him shaking his head. “I have known Elissay for a hundred year, and in all that time I haven’t been able to get her to open up like she just did.”

Spirit shrugged, smirking mischievously. “I guess some guys got it…”

Bellirn cuffed him jokingly about the head. “Come on you, get in the wagon.”

Still smiling, the two clambered into the driver’s seat. Bellirn took the reins and Spirit leaned back against the canvas wall. With a snap of leather, the cart began to trundle forward, and they were on the road again.

Chapter 8: The Hunt

Birdsong reverberated loudly inside the canvas walls of the wagon, waking Spirit with its cheerful melody. Groggily, he raised his head and looked about the dark wagon. It looked the same as it had yesterday, with the haphazard piles of books and trinkets everywhere. But Spirit hardly noticed them as he searched for the source of the cheerful melody. How had a bird gotten into the wagon?

Before Spirit could muster the energy to get out of bed, Bellirn groaned and rolled himself upright. Sleepily, he plodded over to a small cabinet beside the flap and took something off the top.

Immediately, the song stopped. Bellirn stood there for several more moments, then placed the object back on the cupboard and lumbered back to his bedside. Curious, Spirit pulled himself off the floor to examine the object, and was surprised to find it was the little bird made of oak leaves he had seen yesterday. He reached out to pick it up, then stopped when he heard Bellirn say, “Don’t touch that.”

Spirit glanced over at him. The elf was in the middle of pulling on a dark green shirt and matching trousers. He was thin, but underneath his pale skin muscles rippled and bulged. Once more Spirit had to revise his conclusions about these elves. They certainly weren’t a people to underestimate.

“What is it?” Spirit asked.

“It’s something I made to wake me up in the mornings.”

Spirit peeked out the flap. The sun had yet to rise, and the animals in the woods were still sleeping. He drew his head back in. “You wake up at this unholy hour every day?”

Bellirn grimaced. “No. I usually sleep until sunrise.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair and yawned. “Someone must have tampered with it.”

Spirit grinned apologetically. “That was probably me. I picked it up yesterday when I was rummaging around in here.”

Bellirn laughed and shrugged. “It’s alright. It won’t hurt us to get up early once in a while.” He made to stride towards the flap, but tripped on a pile of junk and nearly fell.

Spirit chuckled slightly. “Or maybe it will.”

Bellirn blushed with embarrassment, but laughed alongside Spirit. Then he  and Spirit stepped outside.

The campsite looked almost exactly as they had left it the previous night: fire pit full of ashes, logs set in a circle around it. The other wagons remained dark and quite, their occupants still sleeping the day away. The trees swayed softly in the gentle breeze, and the buzzing of cicadas filtered between the thick trunks.

Spirit took a deep breath, savoring the bite of the cold morning air. Smiling, he turned to Bellirn. “What can we do to get breakfast prepared?”

Bellirn looked surprised at the question. “Usually we all hunt together, and then prepare our own food.”

“But seeing as we’re both already awake, why don’t we go hunting now?”

Bellirn pointed a finger at Spirit teasingly. “You’re just saying that because you want to butter up to them.”

Spirit grinned shiftily. “So what if I am?” The grin disappeared. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Bellirn nodded. “It won’t be all you need to do, but it’s certainly a good start.”

“Alright!” Spirit said excitedly.

Bellirn motioned back towards his wagon. “Come on. Everything we need is in my wagon.”

Together, they clambered back into the wagon, Spirit’s excitement growing with every step. Once they were inside, Bellirn made a beeline for the weapon cabinet. Spirit’s grin widened.

Just as Spirit had done, Bellirn put his palm to the rough wood and the door swung open, quite as a whisper. Reaching inside, Bellirn pulled out a short, curved sword. He gestured to Spirit. “Take what you want.”

Eagerly, Spirit looked around inside the cupboard. There was the bow, its silver fittings gleaming. There was also a quiver of arrows, made of a dark wood and fitted with silver, just like the bow. A rack at the back held two swords, one of which was now in Bellirn’s grasp, and a dagger. Carefully, Spirit withdrew the weapon and examined it.

The sheath was made of leather, soft as fresh grass, with a cap made of bronze. A small hook ran along the inside of the sheath, allowing the user to clip it easily to a belt.

After looking to Bellirn for approval, Spirit grasped the hilt and pulled. The blade came free with a steely hiss, metal singing against leather. The blade was crafted from dusky golden steel that sparkled in the candlelight. It curved gently from the tip all the way down to the black wooden cross guard. The guard was fashioned from more of the black wood the elves seemed so fond of, and each tip was adorned with a bronze flacon head. The hilt was wrapped in more leather, and a small red jewel was set in the pommel.

Spirit was rendered speechless by the deadly beauty of the dagger. He looked up at Bellirn in awe. “Are all elvish weapons made this way?”

Bellirn shrugged. “These are not as magnificent as more expensive or important weapons, but most of the more common ones look like this, yes.”

Spirit laughed in amazement. “I’m not sure even the emperor’s sword is quite as splendid as these.”

Bellirn ran a finger along the edge of the dagger. “The metal is enchanted as it is forged. The blade can cut through almost any substance.” Seeing the look of awe and longing on Spirit’s face, Bellirn chuckled. “Here, take it.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Sure. I never use it anyway. Besides, you need a weapon if you’re going to travel with us.”

Spirit clipped the knife to his belt excitedly. Then he looked at Bellirn and said, “Alright. I’m ready!”

Several minutes later, the pair had entered the woods outside of the camp, armed with a handful of traps each. Darkness hung like a blanket over the woods, smothering any sounds they made. The trees stood like silent sentinels, staring down at them disapprovingly. Small bushes lay scattered across their path, looming out of the blackness like pale ghosts.  Spirit’s heartbeat seemed as loud as a forge in the shadowy stillness.

Together, they crept cautiously deeper into the gloom, alert for any sign of prey. Spirit peered into the dim shadows, searching for any sign of movement. Then, he saw a patch of black underneath a large fern, a spot where there was even less light. Turning, he tapped Bellirn’s shoulder. The elf looked over at him, a question in his eyes.

Spirit pointed mutely at the black space.

Bellirn crept towards the hole. Once he arrived, he nodded appreciatively at Spirit. As the boy had suspected, it was a rabbit hole. Careful not to make any noise, Bellirn set up one of the traps they had brought over the hole, then backed away. “Good eyes,” he murmured to Spirit as he passed him. Pleased, Spirit turned and followed him.

It happened towards the end of the hunting trip. Spirit and Bellirn were crossing a clearing in the center of the forest. The sun was beginning to poke up above the horizon, and they were heading back towards the campsite, checking their traps on the way.

Spirit was bringing up the rear when he heard a stick break off to his left. His head whipped towards the sound, but he could see nothing. Shrugging, he was just turning back to face forward again when he heard a snort, almost muffled by the sound of their footsteps. Looking back again, he began to ask Bellirn if there was anyone else in the woods when the words died on his lips.

Staring out of the grey underbrush were two beady yellow eyes, filled with hunger. Then the thing stepped out into the half-light of morning, revealing a long, scrawny body covered in sleek, oily hair. The beast was not necessarily muscular, but long claws protruded from its bony paws, and its snarling maw was filled with razor-shapr teeth. The thing snarled, an evil glimmer in its eyes, then without warning it charged.

Letting out a terrified shout, Spirit leapt forward and began to run. Bellirn looked back at the commotion, saw the creature tearing towards them, and spun about. Spirit skidded to a halt next to him. “What in heavens name are you doing? That thing is going to ripe you apart!”

Bellirn’s mouth was set in a grim line. “It’s a bleak-wraith. We can’t outrun it, our only hope is to fight.”

Before Spirit could raise his voice in protest, the bleak-wraith was upon them. It leapt upward, slashing at Bellirn’s midsection with its wicked claws. Bellirn curled inward to dodge the blow, and the talons ripped a large gash sideways across his shirt.

Spinning away from the blow, Bellirn pivoted on one foot and cut at the wraith’s shoulder. But its momentum carried the wraith past the strike, and it barreled towards Spirit, bloodlust gleaming in its eyes.

Panic gripped Spirit, rooting him in place as the monster charged. Just before it struck, Bellirn shouted something indecipherable and a lightning bolt flashed into Spirit’s vision, ramming into the bleak-wraith’s flank and sending it reeling off course.

The smell of burning hair and charred flesh filled the clearing, but the ferocious beast seemed not to notice its pain. Rising from the ground, it growled and charged Spirit again. Bellirn leapt into the wraith’s path, hacking desperately at its head. But the wraith ducked under his strike and head butted him in the stomach. Bellirn flew across the clearing, smashed into a tree and crumpled to the ground. Undeterred, the beast continued its headlong rush towards the helpless boy.

With a cry of terror, Spirit leapt to the side and slashed out with his little dagger. The blade cut a deep gash in the bleak-wraith’s sleek fur, and the thing tumbled past him, howling.

Spirit landed hard, his breath whooshing out of his chest. Struggling to breath, he rolled over to his back and looked at the wraith. Already it was recovering from its surprise, and began stalking towards him. It knew he had nowhere to run, so it had no reason to hurry. Gasping for breath, Spirit scooted backwards desperately. But the monster kept coming.

A deadly calm settled over Spirit as he realized, I’m going to die. For the briefest second, he welcomed the fact, grateful for the escape from pain and fear. But part of him resisted. It can’t end. Not like this. Pressure began to build in his chest. His muscles clenched, ready for one last fight. The force built until his chest was hurting, his body screaming for a release. Raising his knife, he let out a guttural yell and lunged at the stunned animal.

Flames exploded into being along the dagger blade, rippling and hissing with ferocity. The wraith yowled in surprise and pulled away from the burning piece of metal. But Spirit’s aim was true, and the lethal arc of light sunk deep into the beast’s flesh and stuck. The wraith screamed, an inhuman wail that tore at Spirit’s ears like a knife. Still wailing, the beast thrashed its massive body, tearing the hilt out of Spirit’s hand. Defeated without his weapon, he collapsed to the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the awful pain of those talons ripping their way into his flesh.

But it never came.

Slowly, Spirit opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the wraith standing at him. But instead all he could see was smoke. Am I dead? he wondered. He never would have guessed it would feel like this. All of his cuts and bruises were still throbbing, and he could smell something burning. I must not be dead then, he decided with some relief.

Behind him, someone groaned. Pushing himself onto his hands and knees, he turned to look and there was Bellirn, sitting up against a tree and rubbing the back of his head. With another groan, Bellirn opened his eyes and looked over at Spirit. “Wha… what happened?”

Spirit shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Looking back toward the smoke, he could see a dark shape huddled at the center. Frowning quizzically, he stood and crept towards it. The closer he got, the thicker the smoke became, until he was forced to cover his mouth with his shirt so as not to inhale the poisonous fog. Then he stepped out of the cloud, and the shape resolved itself into the twisted body of the bleak-wraith.

The animal was clearly dead. The smoke was pouring out of a gash in its side, wafting into the clearing. And protruding from the hole was Spirit’s knife. Amazed, Spirit stooped and grasped the hilt. The metal was warm when he touched it, but not unpleasantly so. Redoubling his grip, he yanked the blade from the carcass and examined it. His face fell as he took in the extent of the damage his actions had inflicted.

The blade, once a clear, robust bronze was now spotted by char marks and burns. The leather wrapping on the hilt had burned away, reveling a rough interior of softening iron. The falcons on the crossguard had melted into unrecognizable lumps, and the metal ribs holding the ruby in the pommel had all but dissolved in the heat.

Tears sprang into Spirit’s eyes, but he wiped them away angrily. I can fix it, he told himself. I just need the right tools. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Bellirn staring in wonder at the smoldering remains. “How did you manage to kill it?” he asked.

Spirit mutely held up the dagger.

Some of the surprise left Bellirn’s face, and he nodded. “I see. Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Spirit shook his head.

Bellirn smiled. “Well then what are you upset about?”

Spirit swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean to melt it.”

“Oh don’t worry about that. An elvish smith can fix that easily. We’ll find one as soon as we get to the island ok?”

Spirit’s face brightened. “Do you think he would let me do it myself? I’m pretty good with a hammer.”

Bellirn chuckled. “Two things: Not all elvish smiths are male. You would do well to remember it. And I think they might let you help, but you don’t have enough knowledge of elven craftsmanship to do it yourself.”

The boy frowned, but Bellirn could see his spirits had been restored. “Well, I’m still just an apprentice.”

Bellirn grinned. “Aye, that you are. Now, what do you say we lug this thing back to the campsite? The others will never believe this.”

Spirit nodded, and grasping its legs, the pair started back towards camp.

Chapter 7: The Elek-Orosim

Night had fallen while they had talked, and the stars shone like diamonds scattered across the blanket of the sky. The moon cast a silvery glow over their little caravan, chasing away the shadows. Caren was nowhere in sight: Spirit knew they must be miles away by now. All traces of civilization were gone, save the buttery pools of lantern light spilling out from the wagons’ canvas confines. They had stopped for the night in a clearing off the main road, and had turned the wagons into a circle, forming a kind of wall that shut out the sounds of the forest around them. On the edge of the forest, several horses had been tied to some trees, and they munched happily on the grass beneath their hooves.

 The rest of the elves were already setting up camp as Spirit and Bellirn hopped out of their wagon, and they all turned to look as the pair stepped into the light. As they stared in obvious surprise, Spirit was able to look at each one in turn.

There were only five others, three men and two women, and all of them shared Bellirn’s thin hands and angular faces. Thanks to Bellirn’s counter-spell, Spirit could see all of their ears clearly, and the first thing he noticed about their appearances was that all of the female’s ears were much longer then the males. While the men’s were little more than a human ear with a rounded tip, the women’s protruded half-a-hand farther up the side of their heads, tapering to a sharp point.

Unlike Bellirn, the two men had short brown hair the color of fallen maple leaves. The women wore their hair with two braids circling from the crown of the head to the base of the neck. The woman on the left had hair so fair, it practically shone in the moonlight, while the other had tresses blacker than midnight.

All of this Spirit was able to see before the camp erupted into a clamor of voices, screaming and shouting.

“Who is that?”

“What was he doing in your wagon?”

Bellirn raised a hand, as if to deflect their volley of indignant questions. When they shouting continued unabated, he frowned with annoyance. “Quite!” he yelled. Somehow he had magically amplified his voice, and it cut through the babble like a razor sharp sword. Immediately they fell silent, still staring at Spirit with apprehension and, in some cases, barely concealed hatred.

“Thank you.”

Leaving Spirit, he strode forward until he stood directly in front of the others. They looked at him expectantly, and Spirit realized that Bellirn must be the leader of the caravan.

Bellirn looked at one of the men, taller than Bellirn and with slightly longer hair. “Lilten. You first.”

Lilten started in surprise, then asked, “Why have you brought a human into the camp? And how did he come to be inside of your wagon?”

“I brought him here because he is, to put it simply, special.” He looked at the other elves. “And he was in my wagon because I found him there.”

At this the elves began shouting again.

“Why did you let him stay?” Lilten groaned.

“Why did you not clean his memory and throw him back into the street?” The fair-haired woman shouted this over the others, and they all stopped and nodded. Bellirn smiled.

“A fair question. At first I had planned to clean him and send him on his way, and was preparing to do just that. But something stopped me.” Here he turned to Spirit and gestured. “Spirit, come here.”

Shyly, aware of all the other’s eyes upon him, Spirit shuffled up to stand beside Bellirn. The tall elf man looked at Spirit kindly.

“If it’s alright with you, I want to show them your birthmark.”

“Ok.”

Spirit rolled up his sleeve, exposing his arm. Beneath the glow of the lanterns, his skin turned a pasty white. But the little flame stood out as livid as before, seeming almost to dance upon his shoulder.

A collective gasp rose from the assembled elves. Then they moved forward until they stood in a ring around Spirit. Their silence made him nervous, and the fact that even the women stood several inches above his head didn’t help much. Lilten had knelt to examine the mark, and was thankfully now a little lower than Spirit’s height. His brown eyes were filled with curiosity, and they shone out of his tanned face, staring at the mark. He reached out a slim hand, then stopped. “May I?” he asked Spirit.

The boy nodded. Slowly, almost reverently, Lilten brushed his thin fingers across the livid red skin. A glow seemed to emanate from underneath Spirit’s skin, a fiery brand of orange laid across his flesh. A curious tingling coursed through his body, and he felt warm all over. Unbidden, the great beast he had felt at the party rose again in his chest, but this time he did not shrink away. Instead, he reached out towards it, curious. What are you, he asked hesitantly.

A strange bubbling filled his mind. It took him several moments to realize that the thing was laughing. Then, suddenly it began to fade, leaving with it a final impression, a picture of sorts. Confused by what he saw, Spirit pleaded with it to stay, to explain what it had said. But it was already gone.

Spirit became aware that he was being shaken by the shoulders, and he shook his head to clear his vision. The elves were still gathered around him, their faces filled with concern. Lilten was the one who had a grip on him, and he was staring desperately at Spirit’s face. When he saw Spirit’s eyes focus on him, he sighed with relief and let his arms fall to his sides. “Thank goodness. I thought for a moment… never mind.”

Bellirn leaned over Spirit as well, worry written on his face. “Are you all right Spirit?”

Spirit nodded, more confused then ever. “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you sort of passed out.”

Spirit stared at him for a moment, then let out a humorless laugh. “That seems to be happening more and more lately.”

“How do you mean?”

Spirit shrugged. “Oh, just passing out, weird trances, and other-worldly meetings. The usual.”

Bellirn looked at Lilten with growing alarm. Lilten however was focused on Spirit, a frown creasing his forehead. Spirit held his gaze unflinchingly, wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the fair haired woman stepped forward.

Of the entire group, she was probably the smallest, standing barely above Spirit’s head. Her hair tumbled down her back like a waterfall of liquid gold, and she moved with the grace of a dancer, her actions careful and controlled. Her leaf-green eyes regarded him impassively, and her cherry-red lips were pressed in a thin line. She flicked her hair expertly over one shoulder and spoke in a lilting voice, “Where did you get that mark, boy?” Her tone was not unkind, but neither was it friendly.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had it since birth, but it only started to actually light up within the past week.”

She nodded, as if he had confirmed a suspicion. “I see. You do know that is an elek-orosim yes?”

“What’s an elek- ore… whatever?”

She smiled slightly. “The elek-orosim is the elvish name for the elemental’s mark. All those gifted with the power of the elemental have one.”

“I knew I was an elemental, but I didn’t know my birthmark had a name.”

She frowned slightly. “You did?”

“Bellirn told me.” He jerked a thumb at the sheepish elf. Bellirn raised a hand and grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

A thoughtful expression came over her face, then she addressed Spirit again.  “Can you show us?

Spirit shrugged. “Sure.”

He let his eyes wander about the unfurnished campsite, searching for a suitable prop. He was already a little strained from his stunt in the wagon, but one more trick wouldn’t tire him out too bad. Soon his gaze alighted upon one of the lanterns.

Striding over the lamp, Spirit opened the little glass door and peered inside. A small tongue of fire winked back at him. Carefully, he reached a hand into the confines of the lamp and pulled the little flame out. As he pulled, he allowed some essence of the fire to stay anchored to the wick, and so when he closed the lid, the light shone just as bright as before. Turning, he bowed, presenting his flame to the assembled elves. Whispers broke out again, but this time it seemed they were not directed at him as much. Something like hope began to grow in Spirit’s chest.

The whispers died down after a moment, and the fair-haired elf stepped over to Spirit. At first she just stood there, staring at him. Spirit waited, knowing from past experience it was better just to wait for an adult to talk. Then slowly, the words came. “You are an elemental, of that there is no doubt. And a powerful one at that, to be able to do so much with no training.” She stopped and continued to examine him as if he were a very interesting book.

“Thank you.” Spirit said shyly, struck suddenly by how beautiful, and yet vastly alien she was.

But she seemed pleased by this response, and turned to Bellirn. “Are we to take him then?”

Bellirn nodded.

She nodded with him, then turned to the other three. “Does anyone object to this boy traveling with us?”

The clearing was, for the first time in many minutes, silent. Spirit could hear the crickets chirping in the forest, the hooting of owls beginning their nighttime excursions, and the water gurgling softly in a brook nearby. It was all, he reflected, quite peaceful. The thought did little to calm his suddenly pounding heart. If they refuse to accept me… no. I won’t think about that.

But one by one, the elves shook their heads. “A boy graced with the power of the Creator. Who are we to refuse him anything? ” Lilten said pompously. “Even if he is a human,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Spirit resisted the urge to jump for joy. He was doing it! He was traveling with a party of elves to their nation’s capital, to practice elemental control! If he had been happier than this in his life, he sure didn’t remember it. But his joy was marred by one thing that kept coming to the forefront of his mind: he was leaving all of his friends, everything he had ever known, and going off to someplace he knew absolutely nothing about.

The joy that only moments before had filled his mind was now buried in a pile of doubt. Was he really doing the right thing? Could he trust these people? Might it just be better to take his chances at home? All these thoughts and more filled his head as he and the elves bustled about setting up camp.

Supper was a quiet affair, consisting of stew and a small loaf of bread. The bread was unlike any Spirit had ever tasted, with each bite revealing a completely new flavor. Even the texture changed, from pleasantly crunchy to soft as silk. Normally he would have been amazed, but instead he was smothered by a blanket of uneasiness, his thoughts unable to drift from the final image the thing inside his head had left him.

Once everyone finished, they all trooped to the nearby stream to wash out their utensils, then vanished into the wagons. Bellirn and Spirit were the last ones in, Bellirn pausing to put out the fire.

Inside the wagon, Bellirn took the bed and Spirit laid out a few blankets upon the floor. After several moments, Spirit voiced the question that had been on his mind all evening. “Bellirn,” he asked cautiously, “Why is it the others seem to hate me?”

 Bellirn was silent for so long that Spirit almost thought he had gone to sleep. But then he said slowly, “I think that’s something you should ask them Spirit.”

Spirit nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. Unbidden, the memory of his conversation with the beast rose to the forefront of his consciousness. Grimacing, he turned over and tried to go to sleep. But that final image burned bright in his mind, unavoidable, unmistakable— an image of himself.

Chapter 6: Awakening

Spirit sat on his bedroll, numb with shock. He had run straight home after the fight, and now sat, head in his hands, in his bedroom. No one had been home when he had arrived. It probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Spirit was oblivious to anything but his current circumstances, and he would’ve ignored them.

That settles it. Somehow, I’ve become a magician, he thought.

No, said another voice, one that was not his own. Not magician. Elekvon.

He ignored that voice too. But I didn’t even mean to use magic on Rixar. I was just angry! How can I cast a spell like that without even knowing what I’m doing?

The voice faded into the depths of his mind, lingering to whisper again. Elekvon…

Whatever.

After a while, the rain let up, and a hint of sunlight began to peek tentatively through the clouds. Spirit stared unseeing out the window for several minutes, steeling his nerve. Then he rose and made his way out of the house.

He stopped at the fire pit in the backyard. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, clearing his head. This is the final test. If I can manage to summon magic… I don’t know what I’ll do. I guess just figure that out when I get there. If I get there.

He took another deep breath, then concentrated. Suddenly the world sprang back into focus. But his eyes were closed. Curious, he explored with his new “sight”.

He didn’t see so much in the sense of physical objects, rather he saw what seemed to be patches of energy, rolling and cavorting about. They were everywhere, from little balls smaller than his fingernail to large, multi-colored blobs scampering about. Most of them moved as if they were alive, but several stayed in a single spot, immobile save the rhythmic undulation of the colors rippling up and down their bodies.

One such source lay almost in front of him. It seemed to be fluctuating very little, as if it was asleep. Extending his sight towards it, he tried to decipher what it was. With a flash, the source sprang up and began to shine like the others. Then he began to feel heat rolling across his face, and he opened his eyes reflexively.

He was kneeling beside the fire pit with his face almost touching the ground. But the real shocker was the fact that the pit was filled with flames—and his head was right in the center!

With a raw yell, Spirit launched himself backward, away from the conflagration. He landed hard, scraping his elbows. Terrified, he put his hands to his face, expecting to feel a mass of burned tissue. Instead it was as smooth as it ever was. Slowly, he sat up to stare at the flames that crackled innocently at him. Tentatively, he crawled to the edge and stuck his head in the blaze. Still he did not burn.

Remembering what had happened with his bed, he quickly pulled back so that his clothing would not burn up. Already they had begun to smoke without his noticing. He sat back on his haunches and shook his head. Well that settled it. Something was definitely not right here.

A thought occurred to him. He stretched out his hand towards the flames, and with a burst of concentration, the fire was snuffed out as quickly as it had begun. A reluctant grin spread across his face. Again he concentrated. Again the fire sprung into existence. A flicker of thought and even the ashes lost their heat.

It was not until he had sat there playing with fire for quite a while longer that he noticed his muscles shaking. His attention diverted from his new abilities, he let out an inaudible groan as exhaustion flooded his limbs. I guess doing magic makes you tired, he thought.

Shrugging, he stood and made his way back into the den, grabbing a hunk of bread from the kitchen as he passed. Throwing himself down in an armchair, he began to chew on the loaf, all the while thinking about what he should do. Now that he knew he was a magician, there were several options available to him.

The first was the most obvious: not tell anyone, and maybe his aunt and cousin would forget about the whole incident. While this would certainly be the easiest, Spirit wasn’t so sure he cold keep up a deception like that forever.

Second: tell his family. Once they knew, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the village found out, no matter what oaths Drac and aunt Laura took. Then one of two things would happen: either they would accept him, and life would go on, or they would hang him as a sorcerer. Not such a great outcome.

Or he could try the third option. This was the most uncertain of the three, seeing as Spirit had no direct proof that what he was attempting even existed. Several months ago, some Imperial soldiers had stooped in town and spent the night in the inn. Naturally, they had a few drinks and began gossiping with the other patrons. One soldier had said that, despite the common people’s fear and distrust of them, the Empire had a secret corps of magicians that answered only to the Emperor. While this was probably a load of hogwash, Spirit certainly would have a bright future as a servant of the Empire.

Spirit sighed. Even if there was a secret corps, how could he know they would accept him? He would be trusting his life to the word of a drunk. And even the thickest of dullards know not to do that.

Suddenly he sat up straight, mind working like a farm horse. The trade caravan! If they were really from Parmiea, they would know exactly what was happening and what he should do! Grinning from ear to ear, he leapt out of his chair, spun past the door, and blasted down the dirt track towards town.

It didn’t take him long to get to Conor’s house. Minutes later he stood pounding in the door-knocker. After several bangs, he stopped and tried to catch his breath. A dull thumping resounded from inside, and Spirit just had time to straighten before the door was thrown open. Conor stood there, his cloths rumpled and a joyful grin on his face. Spirit found himself grinning as well. His friend’s good humor was infectious.

“Hey Spirit! I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“What, you didn’t think I would?”

Conor shook his head. “Nah, I know you too well.” He laughed, then stood to the side. “Come on in.”

Spirit stepped over the threshold and Conor shut the door behind him.

Conor’s house was not very different from Spirit’s. Both had the same wooden planks on the floor and ceiling, but the walls of Conor’s house were made of rough stone blocks to better hold in heat. On a cold, rainy day like this, those walls made the house especially comfortable.

Conor’s mother and father were sitting in the den, and waved as Spirit passed.

Sophie sat in the chair closest to the fire, a pair of knitting needles clicking and flashing in her nimble fingers. The firelight made her chocolate-brown hair almost black, and her green eyes crinkled as she smiled.

Shaun stood up from his chair with all the agility of a practiced acrobat—which of course he was. Lean muscles stood out in relief against the background of his fire-lit skin.

“Hey Mr. Shaun.” Spirit nodded at him. For the first time, he noticed that as he strode into the room to greet them, the fire jumped up, and the room brightened considerably. He made a mental note of the occurrence. Must be another strange magician spell.

Sarent smiled and shook Spirit’s hand. “Hello lad!”

Sophie gave a small wave. “Hello Spirit. How are you?”

Spirit thought for a moment. Despite the fact that his entire world had been shattered basically overnight, the possibility of meeting the elves had given him hope, hope that perhaps everything would turn out right in the end. A small smile spread across his face as he replied, “Pretty good.”

“Good.”

Conor grinned at his parents, then playfully prodded Spirit in the back. “Let’s go in my room.” he whispered.

Spirit nodded, waved a good bye to the pair, and followed his friend up the stairs.

Paintings of exotic landscapes adorned the walls here, and lamps hung at regular intervals, casting a cheery light on their faces as they climbed. The second-floor landing was as well lit as the stairway, this time by large windows that stood sentinel over the golden expanse of wheat. There were only two doors on the landing. One led to Conor’s bedroom, the other to his parent’s. Spirit and Conor proceeded into his room, where the latter shut the door behind them.

The room was, for lack of a better word, untidy. Conor was not one to spend time on such trivialities as cleaning up, so the floor was littered with old clothes, pens, and assorted bits of junk. But the window had another breathtaking view of the wheat fields, and the shelves that circled around the room were artfully decorated with the best examples of Conor’s hobby: whittling. Ranging from tiny squirrels to fire breathing dragons, the small statues romped and played their way about Conor’s wall.

Spirit cleared a place for himself to sit, then leaned against the wall. “So, found out anything else?”

Conor plopped down on the edge of his bed. “Yes. Thomas has been causing quite a stir with all of his stories. People are beginning to believe some of what he says, at least enough to start pressuring the traders to let them search the wagons. Of course they refused, so now the merchants have called a council to decide what to do next. I figured now would be a pretty good time to go scout around, seeing as no one will be there, what with the weather and Thomas’s tall tales.”

Spirit nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

A mischievous twinkle alit in Conor’s eyes. “Well then. What are we waiting for?”

Spirit grinned and leapt to his feet. “You first.”

Turning, both boys sprinted across the hallway and thundered down the stairs. They yelled a hurried goodbye to Conor’s parents as they passed the sitting room, then they were out the door and into the pouring rain.

It didn’t take long to get to the marketplace, but as the duo walked, they formulated a plan for getting into the wagons. A quick trip through an alleyway and they had all the supplies they would need. Excited, they unconsciously began walking faster.

Water dripped from every roof you passed, making it seem as if it were raining again. Several people strode quietly along the slippery streets, but for the most part the villagers seemed content to stay inside their warm, dry houses.

When they were close to the square, the pair split up. Conor continued up the road and turned into the market, a large sack thrown over his shoulder. Spirit meanwhile ducked into another alley and followed it, twisting and turning. He expected to feel a rush of fear, remembering what had happened the last time he had been in an alley. Instead he felt only a grim determination. If Rixar comes back, he’ll get what he deserves.

Within minutes, he saw the end of the alley, which he knew opened up directly behind the trader’s caravan. Stooping behind some crates, he peered out into the square. What he saw made him gasp.

The traders were packing up their goods and stowing them in the wagons. They were preparing to leave! “Blisterpods!” Spirit cursed under his breath. If they left now, who knows when he would get another chance like this, if he ever did again!

“Come on Conor, come on,” he muttered. His eyes danced over the crowd, struggling to locate the hunched figure of his friend. Failing that, he found the animal traders and watched their stalls like a hawk.

Suddenly a storm of caws, growls and other assorted animal noises erupted from the cages next to stalls, and next thing Spirit knew everyone was running over to investigate the ruckus, obscuring his view. Even the Parmiean traders abandoned their preparations to have a look. Not one of them noticed the small shadow darting along the wall towards the wagons.

While they had been making their way to the square, Spirit and Conor had stopped in an alleyway to grab a sack and fill it with a bunch of food scraps they scrounged from trash bins. Conor had then proceeded to scatter the scraps all over the square. After he opened the animal cages, the hungry beasts would immediately scatter to find the food, causing enough panic for Spirit and Conor to sneak into the trader’s wagons.

The second everyone’s heads turned, Spirit had leapt from his hiding place and sprinted to the closest wagon. There, he knelt behind the wheel until he was joined by the shadow, which resolved itself into the grinning form of Conor.

“Well that was fun.”

Spirit grinned back, then pointed at the next wagon. “Take that one. We’ll meet at the plaza, just like we planned.”

Conor nodded his agreement and then hustled over to the other wagon. Not waiting to see if Conor got in, Spirit hoisted himself up over the lip and into the musty interior.

It took Spirit’s eye a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but once they did, he couldn’t help but let out a small gasp as he took his first look at the inside of the carriage.

The walls were made of white silk pulled tight over a set of wooden ribs that ran from the sides, up to the top, and back down to the opposite floor line. The wood was a deep, creamy brown, and the fibers were soft underneath Spirit’s bare hands. But the wagon itself wasn’t the interesting part. It seemed as if every surface was covered in the most exotic and mystifying objects. Every tabletop was cluttered with strange glass creations, twisting and curving about, while on the shelves sat rows upon rows of jars, all filled with pickled plants and other bits and bobs. The floor was covered with piles upon piles of books and scrolls, all crammed together in stacks that looked ready to collapse at any second. A small bed was crammed into the corner, an ink bottle sitting open upon a fresh piece of parchment.

Spirit grinned to himself. Whoever these people were, they certainly weren’t traders. Still gawking, he began to shuffle along, poking through the piles he passed. Each step brought a fresh wave of new discoveries more exciting than the last. Once he picked up and examined a bird made of oak leaves that began to twitch when he held it.  He also found a goblet made completely of what felt an awful lot like ice. When he touched it, his fingers tingled and grew cold. Once his fingers started turning blue, he left that one well enough alone.

At the end of the wagon he came upon a cabinet built into the wall. The strange thing about it was it had no latch to speak of. Although he almost gave it up as a bad job, something made him linger. The problem intrigued him. Why would they have a cupboard that wouldn’t open? Even surrounded by all of the other seemingly pointless items, it didn’t seem right to Spirit. Curious, he reached out a hand and touched the wood. And without a sound, the door swung open.

Spirits’ jaw dropped as he took in his splendid new discovery.

The cupboard was filled to the brim with the more swords, bows and arrows than Spirit had seen in his life. The cold metal glittered with deadly purpose under the lantern light. As reverently as a storm elf handed the emperor’s ceremonial sword, Spirit reached in and drew out a bow.

It was truly a thing of beauty. The fittings were crafted of silver that gleamed like moonlight, and the jet black wood was hard, yet supple and springy. Spirit grasped the string and pulled back experimentally, then groaned as the unyielding wood barely moved.

These are incredible, he thought to himself. Colin could never dream of forging anything like this. The workmanship didn’t even look human. Suddenly a disturbing thought occurred to him.  What if they were sorcerers? Most people regarded sorcerers with a mixture of fear and hatred, because of their great tendency towards evil. If these “traders” were really a band of renegade sorcerers, it was highly unlikely they would teach him. Instead they would probably just kill him and Conor, now that the two boys had found out their secret.  

A jolt of fear hit Spirit like a bucket of ice water, and he suddenly saw what a bad idea it had been to come here. But before he could put the weapons back into the cupboard, the flap flew up and one of the traders stepped into the wagon. Upon seeing Spirit, bow in hand, he froze.

Spirit recovered from his shock first. Throwing the longbow back into the cupboard, he spun and made to leap out of the other opening. This would have been a splendid idea, had he actually jumped. But an invisible force seemed to grip him, pinning him to the floor as the trader shuffled towards him. He gripped his shoulders and turned Spirit about to face him. His hood cast most of his face into shadow, save his grim line of a mouth, but the glint of fury in his eyes was easily discernable.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Spirit felt a jolt underneath him as the caravan began to move. He only had time to realize this startling development before the trader’s angry whisper filled the wagon. “What in the name of the sacred lakes are you doing in here?”

Spirit swallowed nervously. “I… um… I was just exploring sir.”

“Really. And why, may I ask, did you feel led to explore the interior of my wagon?”

“I got lost.” Spirit winced. The lie sounded bad, even to him.

The trader cocked his head slightly to the side, as if considering Spirit’s answer. The trader’s hood swayed along with the movement of the wagon, casting writhing shadows across his face. “Right. And how did you open my cabinet?”

Spirit set his face into a mask of defiance and retorted, “None of your business. Why are you carrying around enough weapons for an army anyway? You aren’t selling them, so what use do you have for them?”

The trader’s visage darkened for a heartbeat, as if remembering a bad dream. “I have plenty of uses for them. You can trust me on that.” Then his face once again grew hard, and his grip tightened on Spirit’s shoulders. “Regardless, you have seen too much. I cannot let you leave here and run the risk of telling others what you have witnessed.”

Fear began to course through his body at the implications of these words. The insane sorcerer was going to kill him! And they were definitely out of the city by now. There was nothing they could do! Some type of magic undoubtedly was what bound him to the floor, and Spirit had no idea if it was even possible to use magic to deflect another magician’s spell, much less how to go about it. But maybe he could use more conventional means. He tensed, his whole body waiting for the split-second opportunity he would use to escape.

The trader continued his line of thought. “… so there is only one solution. I’m going to have to wipe your mind.”

Spirit couldn’t help it: a small yelp of terror escaped his stiff lips. But the trader just laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to erase your whole memory! Just the ones of your being here. It’s an entirely painless process.”

Still muttering his strange words of comfort, the trader began to pull Spirit towards his desk. As they turned, the trader’s rough grip slid up Spirit’s arm, pulling the sleeve with it and revealing the livid red birthmark.

A look of shock exploded over the man’s face as he caught sight of the patch of inflamed skin. “By the suns’ rays…” he breathed. Shaking, he bent over Spirit’s arm, examining the mark. Then, he slowly raised his face to stare at Spirit.

But this time, his face was filled with wonder, not anger, and the shock on his features had been replaced by radiant joy. His hood fell back, revealing midnight black hair and strangely angular features. “What is your name?”

Spirit was thrown off by this abrupt change in attitude. It was as if a different person stood before him.  Hesitantly, he answered. “My name is Spirit, sir.”

The man’s reaction was immediate. Letting go of Spirit’s arm, he sat heavily on the bed. Smiling up at Spirit, he patted the bedspread beside him. “Please, sit down.”

When Spirit made no move to do anything of the sort, he laughed. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to wipe your memory.”

Cautiously, Spirit sat on the edge of the bed, ready to bolt at any minute.

“That’s it. Sorry about all of that unpleasantness before. I didn’t realize who you were.”

Spirit couldn’t understand why in the name of the gods this… whatever he was would care who he was. “Why does it matter who I am sir?” he asked.

“Because of your birthmark.” He stated simply. “It means something, even though you may not know it.”

“What does it mean?” Spirit asked, excitement growing in him.

The traders paused for a moment, thinking. Then he grimaced “I’m not quite sure actually.”

Spirit fumed silently. Then another question popped into his head. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but what exactly are you?”

He chuckled. “Why I’m an elf.” He looked at Spirit concernedly. “Haven’t you ever heard of us?”

Spirit stared at him with disdain. “You really think I’m that stupid?”

The elf grinned. “No. Here, let me show you. Hold on a moment.”

The trader tucked his hair behind his perfectly normal, round ears. Taking a deep breath, he began to mutter in a strange language. Spirit’s vision blurred slightly, and he suddenly felt very dizzy. Then he was himself again, and he gasped. The trader’s ears, which only moments ago were completely ordinary, now had sharp points at the top!

Spirit stared. “How did you do that?”

The elf shrugged. “It’s a simple spell that all elves put into place before they travel. It conceals the tips of my ears by altering your perception of them. If you haven’t cast the correct counter-spell, my ears look exactly like yours.”

Spirit fought hard to keep from grinning. So the traders were elves! That explained a lot. Maybe they would be able to teach him about magic.

The elf started, then shook his head ruefully. “So sorry. Never even thought to introduce myself.” He placed a smooth, tapered hand over his heart. “I’m Bellirn.”

Spirit clumsily mimicked Bellirn’s movement. “Nice to meet you.” He looked down at his feet, then said sheepishly, “I have another question.”

Bellirn laughed. “Ask away. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Why were you so happy to meet me?”

Bellirn grew serious. “Many years ago, I visited an oracle deep in the forests of my homeland. The prophetess there told me that one day, I would meet a person that would change the fate of the world, and lead them back to the oracle. And that person,” his eyes flicked down to Spirit’s birthmark, “would have a mark exactly like yours.”

Spirit sat back against a rib in the wall, stunned. An oracle had prophesied about him? It was too incredible to believe. But here he sat, talking with an elf, surrounded by myriads of magical objects, on his way to heaven knows where! And Bellirn didn’t look like he was lying. Rather, he was as serious as if it had been the emperor himself who had spoken that prophecy to him.

“So, do you have any more questions?”

Bellirn’s request yanked Spirit out of his meandering thoughts, and he searched his head for anything else.

“Not really,” he said slowly. “Just two.”

“Only two. At least that’s better than before.”

Spirit grinned at the sarcasm. “Well, the first requires a demonstration.”

A look of interest grew on Bellirn’s face. “Be my guest.”

Spirit stood and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he could do this, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried. Holding out his hand, Spirit concentrated. At first, nothing happened. Then the candle flame on Bellirn’s desk flew directly into Spirit’s outstretched palm, leaving a thin line of smoke writhing up from the extinguished wick.

Bellirn gasped and shot to his feet. “You’re an elekvon!”

Spirit looked at him in surprise. That was what the strange voice in his head had called him, but he had paid it no heed. Evidently that had been the wrong choice. “What do you mean? What’s an elekvon?”

Bellirn shook his head. “It’s a person gifted with control over an element. In the human tongue it means ‘elemental’” He gestured at the dancing flame in Spirit’s palm. “Obviously, yours is fire.”

Spirit grinned sheepishly. “I thought I was a sorcerer or something.”

Bellirn shook his head firmly. “No, that’s not magic. Elemental control is instinctual: magic is almost an art form. Magic is something you have to learn. I’ve never heard of a human elekvon though.” He sat heavily back on the bed, his features stormy with concentration. “That answers quite a few questions, but how did you manage to open my cabinet?

Spirit quenched the fire with a thought and sat down beside him. “Why shouldn’t I have been able to?”

Bellirn frowned. “I charmed it so that only the touch of an elf can open the door. Otherwise the only way to get inside it is to break the wood. But you are a human, so how…” he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Spirit thought for a moment. “Could it be because I’m an elekvon?”

Bellirn nodded slightly. “That could be a reason.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Bellirn thinking, Spirit debating. Hesitatnly, he asked, “Can I ask my final question?

Slowly Bellirn returned his attention to Spirit. “Hm? Yes, of course.”

Hope and doubt wrestled in Spirit’s mind. Should he trust this elf, whom he had barely even met? Part of him burned to say yes, but the other half wanted to jump out of the wagon, find Conor, and try to work out his own problems.

But deep inside, he knew there was only one choice. He closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them they were filled with determination. “Can I come with you, to where ever you’re going? And can you teach me how to use my…ability?”

Bellirn smiled. “To the first one: emphatic yes. I was actually hoping you would say that. But I’m afraid I can’t teach you.”

Spirit slumped with a disappointment that almost surprised him. “Why not?”

“Simple.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I’m not an elemental, nor is anyone else in my group.” Spirit lowered his head, but Bellirn held up a hand. “But,” and a mischievous glint shone in his eyes. “I can take you to someone who will.”

Spirit jumped up. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“Yes!” Spirit punched a fist into the air, elation and excitement pouring from him in waves. He was to have a teacher! “Where are we going?” he asked eagerly.

Bellirn grinned almost as wide as Spirit. “Parmiea of course! The only place where the elves still reside.”

Spirit nearly fell over he was so thrilled. “Thank you! Thank you so much Bellirn!”

Bellirn shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.” He looked around as the wagon slowed to a halt beneath them. Standing, he motioned to Spirit. “Come on, let’s go meet the rest of the group.”

Chapter 5: Tears and Rain Mingle

Spirit awoke several hours later from a fitful sleep. There was no sun shining through the window, only a chunk of the granite-grey sky. Even the weather is unhappy, he thought as he began to get dressed. Belatedly, he noticed Drac had already gotten out of bed. This puzzled Spirit, because Drac normally didn’t get out of bed before Spirit. After dressing, he ambled down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Drac and Aunt Laura sat at the table, half-finished platters of ham and potatoes before them, arguing.

“Why don’t you go see Kevin the fletcher? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having an apprentice.”

“Mum, I’ve told you, I don’t want to be a craftsman.”

“Well then, what do you want to be?”

Drac was about to reply, but stopped when he spotted his cousin in the doorway. “Hey Spirit. You can sit down if you want.”

Spirit obliged, sliding into a chair directly between the two. Drac walked over to the counter and came back with another plate of ham and potatoes. “Here’s your breakfast. Sorry if it’s a bit cold.”

Spirit mutely accepted the dish, then sat and stared into the swirling mound of vegetable as his family resumed their discussion. Although most of their conversation he blocked out as background noise, he perked up a bit when he heard the words “on a farm”. The phrase stirred something in his memory, something he was supposed to tell someone… Ah yes! Colin had wanted him to tell Drac about Cormac. The wizened old man owned one of the biggest farms in the village, and as a result needed plenty of workers.

“Cormac’s looking for another farmhand,” he said casually. It took several moments for the two to notice he said anything.

“What did you say?” Drac asked.

“I said Cormac is looking for another farmhand.”

An astonished look spread over Drac’s face. “Really? Who told you?”

“Mr. Colin. He thought you might want to know, seeing as you would need a job soon.”

“Well, he was certainly right!” Drac’s eyes slid out of focus as he considered the situation. Spirit, his message delivered, finally turned to his stone-cold breakfast and began to eat.

Just as Spirit finished with his plate, Drac nodded to himself, his mind made up. “Mum, I’m going to go to Cormac’s farm. Maybe he’ll have something for me.”

Aunt Laura pursed her lips, then sighed. “Very well. Off you go then.”

Without another word, Drac got up from his seat and departed.

After he left, a deep silence covered the house. Aunt Laura eventually left the kitchen to sit in the den, leaving Spirit alone at the table. Quietly, he finished his plate and put his dish away, then went out and stood in the backyard. It seemed like so long ago that he had been out here with his friends, not a care in the world. But things were different now. He needed information, and he needed it fast. And as far as he knew, there was only one way to get the knowledge he wanted. It was time to go talk to Reorin’s father.

Reorin answered the door, a smile on her face. That smile turned to concern as she took in his tired and careworn visage. “Hello Spirit. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Can I talk to your dad?”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she held the door open wider and gestured to him. “Of course.”

“Thanks.” Spirit stepped over the threshold and into her home.

It was a lively place, full of light and color. Small lamps made of paper and wood hung on strings running all around the walls, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere. A fire burned in the hearth, but as Spirit came in it died down to little more than embers. Reorin’s eyes flickered over to it as she led Spirit over to a chair that faced the fire. In it Jacrith sat reading a book. A pair of glasses perched upon the bridge of nose, and his eyes sped back and forth across the pages.  

“Papa, Spirit wants to talk to you.”

The storm-elf man started at his daughters voice, and looked up in surprise.  

“Greetings to you Spirit. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you sir.” Spirit sat right on the edge of his seat, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Jacrith raised an eyebrow.

“Is there something wrong?”

Spirit attempted a reassuring smile, but didn’t quite pull it off. “No sir, I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Jacrith let the topic go, but continued to look concernedly at Spirit. “Now, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“There’s actually a couple things sir. The first thing is: was Eoin’s story true? The one about the necromancer, Malum?”

 A chill seemed to sweep through the room. Jacrith’s eyes grew dark. “Ah, your first question is the hardest to answer. Many times has that tale been told, but every time something is different. We have no real way of knowing what truly happened during those fateful months save getting the story from someone who was there. But that is impossible, and so we can only speculate. But most of it, yes, it is true.”

“The elves? They existed?”

Jacrith grinned suddenly, and his words assumed the eager tone of an excited teacher. “Yes! They are in fact one of the most constant truths in that whole story. Their civilization was strong, steeped in learning and magic. The people were kind, cultured, and determined. Oh, the stories I could tell you, tales that have been passed down through my family for generations.”

Spirit shrugged and settled back into his chair. “I’m all ears sir.”

Smiling, Jacrith cleared his throat and began.

“Many centuries ago, the world was populated only by men, elves, and the faeires. At this time, the civilization of men had just begun, and they had explored little outside of their own borders. The same was to be said of the elves, who dwelled in the Great Plains. The faeries however, had already built a great empire, even if it was a bit on the small side.

One day, a young faerie was scouting along the edge of the forest when suddenly he was eclipsed in a mammoth shadow! Crying out in fear, he whirled to face this monstrosity. Looming over him was a young elf. “Are you a friend, or a foe?” cried the brave faerie. The elf laughed and replied, “Only if you are a threat to me! But I do not think you are, little man.”

The faerie was insulted! “Little man, you say! I’ll show you!” And he fired a bolt of magic at his face.

The elf cried out in pain and indignation, cupping his nose in his hands. After the pain had subsided, the elf knelt down and bowed his head. “My apologies. I did not suspect one of your stature could be so powerful.”

The faerie’s features softened. “Apology accepted.”

Soon the two became fast friends. After several days, the elf journeyed back to his village, the young faerie accompanying him. When the other elves met the faerie, they were amazed at his weapons and tools, things they had never dreamed of creating. They begged him to teach them all he knew, and he obliged.

Over time, the bond between nations grew so close that it was not uncommon to find faeries and elves living side by side, in either empire. And thanks to the faeries, the elven nation quickly advanced to a sophisticated society.

But a threat loomed, unbeknownst to them. A magical storm was brewing; a titanic storm of such intensity and might that it’s very presence altered that which it passed over.

Oblivious, several towns of elves and faeries gathered together to celebrate their feast of the New Year. They had no idea what a new year it would dawn to be. At one moment it was bright and sunny. The next, immense purple clouds loomed over them, and bolts of magical energy began crashing down to earth. The terrified people scattered, but there was no where to run. Amidst all the horrific noise, a misty rain enveloped everything, smothering the people in a swirling mass of fog colored every color of the rainbow. Then everything grew still, and the fog began to disappear. When the frightened townsfolk came together again, they found they had been changed. The two species had been meshed together by the storm, sealing their bond of friendship forevermore. The people began to make a new life for themselves, and from the point on, they were called the storm elves.”

Spirit sat back in his chair, amazed at what he had just heard. So not only do elves and faeries exist, but the storm elves are descended from them! This is more of a learning experience then I thought it was going to be. Shaking his head, he stole a glance at Jacrith, wondering what his reaction to Spirit’s final question would be.

Finally, his steeled himself and asked hesitantly, “Then I guess my final question is… did Malum really find a way to resurrect the dead?’

An understanding glimmer came into Jacrith’s eyes, and his next words were delivered kindly, almost regretfully. “We can never know. It may be that some bard from ages past though it would sound better if Malum had an army of undead minions rather then just mercenaries and dark creatures. And even if he did, it would be unwise for you to act on that information.” He put a hand on Spirit’s shoulder. “It does not do to dwell in the past.”

Spirit looked at the floor and nodded, fighting back tears. “Yes sir.”

“Are you sure you’re alright Spirit?” Jacrith asked, concern in his voice.

 Spirit sniffled, and then raised his head to look him in the eyes. “Yes sir. I’m fine.”

Abruptly, Spirit stood and said dully, “Thank you for talking to me.”

Jacrith stood as well. “You’re most welcome young man. Please feel free to come back anytime.”

“Thanks.”

As he was making for the door, Reorin touched his shoulder. He turned to face her with a distracted expression, and was startled to see worry and pain written all over her features, eyes brimming with tears. Her mouth worked for several moments, as if she was trying to speak, then she shook her head and threw her arms around him.

Spirit hugged her back, and it was as if she was a sponge, drawing out his pain and worry. Suddenly it was all he could not to sob into her shoulder as his raw emotions burst forth into his mind. His anger and fear at what was happening to him and his hunger to see his family raged in the confines of his soul, battling for supremacy.

After several moments, they broke apart. Tears were silently streaming down Reorin’s face, but she took no notice of them. Spirit swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. “Thank you.” he croaked. A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she nodded. Drying his suddenly wet eyes, Spirit opened the door and left.

While Spirit had been inside, it had begun to rain. Water coursed down the cobblestoned streets and poured off house roofs, but Spirit barely noticed the water. All of his energy was concentrated upon not sinking into a dark corner and crying until he could cry no more. Reorin’s simple act of compassion had opened up a well of grief inside himself, a chasm that had been created by the death of his family, of all that he could ever have called home.

For so long he had believed that they were gone forever, and that thought had enabled him to trap the yearning in a cage, keep it docile and hidden. But now that hunger ran rampant across his soul, consuming all other thoughts and feelings in a single desperate desire: to travel to the Forest of Daggerwood, and if he could find the ruin of the necromancer’s tower… maybe he could see his family again.

Dimly, Spirit noticed that he was trudging along High Road. The street was deserted, everyone opting to stay in their warm, dry homes rather then face the torrential downpour. And yet Spirit heard a voice calling out, asking someone to stop. Annoyed at the noise, he ignored the voice and continued on.

He had barely walked another dozen paces when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him roughly around. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, punk.” Spirit looked up with barely controlled rage into the sneering purple face of Rixar. Behind him stood his two friends, Lee and Ross. They were human boys of about eighteen years that shared Rixar’s love of tormenting others, and on more then one occasion had aided the Larcen in beating Spirit up.

But not today.

“Don’t touch me.” Spirit muttered, barely controlling his rage.

Rixar’s sneer widened. “What did you just say, punk?” He shoved Spirit in the chest, laughing.

“I said don’t TOUCH ME!” The last two words Spirit yelled at the top of his lungs. Cocking back his fist, he powered forward and punched the Larcen in the nose.

Something cracked, and Rixar crumpled to his knees, howling and cupping his nose.

He glared up at Spirit, then looked at his friends and gurgled, “Get hib!”

Ross and Lee eagerly obliged, stalking around the kneeling Rixar towards Spirit. Together they raised their fists and began to circle.

Blood rushed in Spirit’s ears as he settled into a fighting stance. Anger coursed through his veins, and as Ross pulled back for a punch, Spirit let out a yell and kicked at his outstretched leg.

Ross pulled back just in time, but was thrown off balance and his punch missed Spirit by a foot.

Spirit grabbed his forearm as it sailed past and spun, throwing Ross’s punch directly at Lee. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, and he sidestepped out of the way, leaving Ross to stumble past. Once he regained his balance, the pair turned and advanced together, glaring all the while. Spirit had drawn blood: now this was personal.

  Spirit threw a punch at Lee, but he dodged and slammed a fist into Spirit’s ribs. Pain exploded from both the new punch and the half-healed injuries from his last beating. Spirit groaned and stumbled back, then set himself and kicked Ross in the chest. The bully doubled over wheezing, but Lee used the opening to land another kick to Spirit’s stomach.

The blow knocked Spirit back against the wall of the house behind him, where he leaned, desperately trying to force air into his unresponsive lungs.

Rixar joined Lee and Ross in a circle around Spirit, undisguised hate written all over his face. Blood dripped from what looked like a broken nose, but the Larcen seemed oblivious to the pain.

“What are you gonna do, krantic?” Rixar spat out the swearword like it was distasteful to him. Without warning he drew two hands back and slapped Spirit in the face, smashing his head into the rock behind him. The orphan boy sagged against the wall, his strength gone.

Rixar leaned closer. “What are ya gonna do?!” Another slap. Small bits of dirt fell off the wall.

Slowly, Spirit looked up at the Larcen boy. An orange film passed over his eyes, and he hissed, “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Rixar only snarled in contempt and lifted his hands for another strike.

But Spirit was faster.

            His hand shot out, smashing Rixar in the chest. A blast of dry heat erupted from the contact, and the Larcen was thrown across the street to land in a heap on the cobblestones.

            Rixar sat up, then gasped as he saw a charred circle in his shirt, directly where Spirit had punched him. He looked up at Spirit in a dazed horror.

            Lee and Ross had turned to watch Rixar soar past their heads, then whirled back around to find a fist flying at each of their faces.

            The water on the road beneath them evaporated from the blast of heat, and the pair joined their ringleader on the ground, moaning and clutching at the fresh burns on their faces.

            A fresh wave of pain coursed through Rixar’s body, and his mind chose to drop into the bliss of unconsciousness rather than face it. The image that stuck in his mind as he spiraled into the black was one of Spirit’s face— with tears and rain pouring mingled down.