We are less than three weeks out from our release date! I am presenting the first three chapters over the next two weeks building up to preorders. Chapter two switches perspectives and gives us an insight into how the elven resistance is doing while Benrethor is off galivanting in the woods:
Chapter 2:
The traitor entered the gate as if nothing was amiss. Then again, nothing was. Yet. They had many hours before tonight’s festival.
Cathillyn watched him enter Ydra, the Great Tree, before resuming her tinkering. Rubbing her smoothing plane across the wooden surface, she finished the final touches on the cart by noon. With a quick knock, she heard the hollow shell she had crafted. The silver-haired pureblood sighed. It would have to do.
She met with a few more clients before Idris finally showed up to receive his cart. Unlike Cathillyn, Idris was of impure blood. His ancestors had born children with the Cincarians. Thus, he did not have the silver hair of a pureblood, but hair dark as night. He still had the pointed ears and glowing pale eyes of any other elf. He was also alone.
“Where is Benrethor?” Cathillyn asked.
Idris raised a dark brow. “I thought he was with you.”
“He was proposing to your daughter yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Did you not know?”
“I thought he already did,” Idris crossed his large arms. “He got my blessing two months ago. If tonight is to go well, you will definitely need to show more courage than your son.”
“I don’t think we will need courage,” Cathillyn walked him over to the cart. “Not if things go according to plan. Perhaps that is what happened to Benrethor. Did your Emitha turn him down?”
“I don’t know why she would,” Idris looked over the cart. “They have been close since childhood. Aethor approved of them long before either of us.” Idris paused once he realized what he had said. Cathillyn’s dead husband was still a sore subject.
Cathillyn fought back images of Aethor’s death. She didn’t think about how the Cincarians had beaten him while the others took turns with her. She didn’t recall the Caesar’s Hand beating him to death and making her watch. No. Cathillyn remembered his compassion, even towards the humans who took him from her. She remembered him making her laugh whenever he made an often terrible pun. She remembered his love for being outside and all the creatures he encountered. She remembered his strong devotion to the gods.
She also remembered Aethor was dead.
A hollow knocking snapped Cathillyn out of her trance. “They might catch this,” Idris gave the cart another knock.
“Not if Fienn does his job,” Cathillyn said. “Did you bring the tools?”
“Of course,” Idris grinned. “It wouldn’t be a proper Equinox without them.”
They brought Idris’s horse to the back of the shop. While Idris hooked the animal to the cart, Cathillyn unloaded his ‘tools’ and hid them in the compartment. After giving it a final check, the pair set out.
While the two made their way to Fienn’s Meadery, Idris made small talk with Cathillyn, trying his best to keep the conversation casual. How has your day been? How are your language studies going? Did you finish that book I gave you? What did you think? Any plans for the festival? The pair let out a merry laugh at the last question. Oh, yes. Big plans.
Fienn greeted them at the ‘renowned’ meadery (according to Fienn). The connoisseur carefully instructed them which bottles went where, while explaining each of them. Cathillyn tried to act interested while Idris openly recalled the last twenty times.
“This time will be different,” Fienn said. “This time, I made them special for our host.”
“What are you talking about, pointy?” Orem said as he emerged from the meadery with two cases. Orem was a dwerg. Short, hairy, and smelly. Fienn had made sure the dwerg bathed and trimmed his beard for today. Orem had even gone so far as to wear his elven clothes, which only highlighted his muscular physic.
“You can thank me for this special concoction,” Orem said as he hefted his cases onto the back. “These are the ones you’ll want to use first.”
Once they had finished loading the cart, Cathillyn gave them a crash course on the inner workings of the cart. Their ‘tools’ were in the trap door under the cart. Cathillyn would ride with the ‘tools’ to make sure they stayed safe. Meanwhile, Fienn was the invited guest, Orem an out of state merchant, and Idris would now be their servant in place of Benrethor. Neither questioned his new assignment. It was common for elves to die on another mission, especially with so many different cells working together.
Cathillyn put on a silver ball mask and the blue cloak of the Azure Owls before hiding in the trap door. Fienn had Orem take up the reigns and directed him to Ydra.
The road was bumpy, but nothing Cathillyn wasn’t used to. She had been in far tighter and harder places. Some had not even been dry. A few hours passed before the cart rolled to a stop. Fienn marketed his famous mead to the guards and explained the dwerger away as a merchant eager to expand his ventures. The guards looked over Orem’s pass to make sure he had permission to travel to Evellon and found it checked out.
Then they were in. Just in time for sunset.
Idris unpacked the mead with a few other elven servants, while Fienn continued to sweet talk the guards. The servants led Idris to the kitchens through a series of serving halls. Although they had mapped out the entire building, the half-blood had to admit the descriptions didn’t do it any justice.
The Great Tree Ydra was a complex series of corridors and rooms carved into a tree in the same manner the dwerger carved their homes into the rocks. Like the dwerger, the halls of Ydra were full of carvings depicting tales Idris had only heard stories of. His people’s history was lost to Cincara when they conquered Evellon.
Their pace was slowed as he admired the artwork.
Wooden statues, perfectly carved with the grain of the tree, sprung from the walls. Scenes of battle, love, and song filled the halls. Elves, the Krahgans their historic enemies, and the occasional sprite filled the three-dimensional tapestry.
“Funny,” Idris said. “They burn our books, outlaw our songs, but keep our art.”
“They were probably ogling it the way Idris is,” one of the men said.
“No,” another said. “It’s because we don’t see our art. They do. Although, they were probably ogling it the way Idris is now.”
“You get to see it,” Idris pointed out.
“Only because they suddenly found themselves understaffed three years ago.”
“Yeah. Funny how that turned out. Shame what happened.”
Idris looked at the carvings. “Shame what is going to happen.”
Once the mead was set up for display, Idris placed Orem’s special crates off to the side for reserve and showed the others where their mead crates went. Of course, it was not mead within those crates. The young elven men took their knives and hid them in the folds of their robes.
Meanwhile, Fienn talked the guards towards the cart. “Surely, fine men like you can admire the artistry of my people,” he said. “No human has ever attempted such fine woodwork as this. I myself couldn’t even begin to imagine the work that went into carving this beautiful hall. It must have taken centuries just to draw up the designs. Yet, we elves pride ourselves on our passion.”
“Yeah,” a guard chuckled. “Why do you think we like your women so much?”
Cathillyn suppressed a growl from the cart, while Fienn laughed with them.
“Careful not to get too close to the flame,” Fienn said. “It just might burn you. Anyways, our passion is in even the smallest of things. For instance, even this simple cart displays the majesty of elven work.”
Making as little noise as possible, Cathillyn slowly drew her knife in a long screech. Orem had been following them as they approached, walking surprisingly light for a dwerg. The moment the guards were close to the cart, Cathillyn sprung out. Cathillyn stabbed one of the men and Orem grasped the other before he could react. With a jerk, the dwerg snapped the guard’s neck. A pair of corpses replaced the elf in her hiding spot.
Cathillyn clipped her sword to her belt and nodded for Orem to guard the cart. With a final salute, Fienn headed down the hall while Cathillyn climbed into the rafters. She was already wearing trousers under her dress, so the mazer wouldn’t get distracted looking up.
While Fienn casually walked along the halls, Cathillyn followed overhead, nimbly moving from rafter to rafter. Occasionally, she would have to shimmy across the edges of the wall. It would have been difficult for a human, but elves were renowned for their ‘feather-footedness.’
In the ballroom, many human nobles were gathered to celebrate the Elven Equinox. They wore their fancy clothes, enjoyed fancy (elven) food, and danced to their own culture’s music during Cathillyn’s people’s celebration. Amid the crowd, elven “lovers” danced with their masters. This was probably the one night they were allowed to be seen in public.
Cathillyn let out a disgusted snort.
Fienn greeted the traitor upon entering the circular main hall. The traitor had the audacity to use the traditional elven greeting of a bow. He led Fienn to the main table, a half-circle encompassing the main hall. Cathillyn inched her way across the edge of the room, making her way to a dark blue tapestry behind the pair. Clinging to the fabric, Cathillyn was relieved her men had picked the right color for the tapestry. Her cloak helped the pureblood remain hidden against the cloth.
Once she was in place, Idris nodded for the young servants to get to their positions while he headed back to the kitchens. Cathillyn could smell Orem’s concoction from above. The kitchens were set. Orem had their exit secured. The ‘servants’ were in place. Everything was ready.
The pureblood deftly made her way down, silently landing behind the pair. She was just another face in the extravagant crowd. Another elegant mask attending the ball.
While the traitor clapped with the current song, Cathillyn tapped Fienn’s shoulder, and the two swapped places.
“[Many stars shine brightly upon our meeting],” Cathillyn said in Elvish, a langue she had taken pains to rediscover.
The traitor’s clapping ceased. Tensing, he leaned back in his chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure? It is not every day you get to meet the leader of the Azure Owls.”
“[It is not every day you see free elves dancing with men],” Cathillyn nodded to her countrywomen upon the stage. Their smiles were obviously fake. “[Today is not such a day].”
The traitor shifted uncomfortably. The guards were all on the other side of the ballroom. “You know I don’t speak that.”
“Today is not such a day,” Cathillyn repeated.
“A day for freedom, I’m assuming,” the traitor looked for something to draw attention to himself without alerting Cathillyn. “The day will come, but we must give it time.”
“How many more generations must suffer?”
“Careful. With that talk, I would mistake you for a human. We live far longer than their kind. A generation for us is ten for them. We can afford to play the long game.”
“Not when they kill us as they please.”
“That is not every day.”
“Perhaps not in this lofty palace,” Cathillyn feigned admiration for the great hall. She would probably enjoy it more once it was back in her people’s possession. “But tell me: How many of these servants have been here for more than a year? One? Two? Six tops? How many of these maidens can you truthfully say will see their parents again? My actions make sure we live long enough to experience this long age you speak of. I have yet to meet an elf over one hundred. Aside from you.”
“You were once a religious woman,” the traitor said. “Mother Fae said, ‘violence begets violence.’ You do not seek to overthrow them, but replace them. You want to be the one shedding innocent blood instead of them. You want to be the one in this lofty palace. I seek to find an alternative route. We can find peace if given time. Time which we have.”
How could he be so blind? Cathillyn knew the traitor himself only desired this lofty palace. No, Cathillyn wanted something greater. Freedom for all. “You seek to use words when action is called for.”
“Actions failed us last time,” the traitor said.
“Ignorance is what failed us. Ignorance you still hold. Look around you. Look at the women down there. Do they appear to be in love? Is this just another festival for adolescent fun? No. You know very well what those svartures intend to do.”
“Ah. So we come to the heart of the matter,” the traitor twiddled with his fork. “Killing them won’t avenge Aethor.”
“You have no right to speak his name,” Cathillyn sneered.
“Very well,” the traitor said. “But tell me, would your husband approve of your actions?”
“He would understand.”
“That was not what I asked.”
Cathillyn bit her lip to stop herself from screaming. He had no right speaking of Aethor. The traitor knew what would happen on the road to Quelk and still encouraged their journey. He had known. Even without ignorance, he had bliss. The same atrocity was likely to happen to the elven maids dancing before them. Both knew it, the difference being one cared for more than her own skin.
The smell of smoke came from the kitchens. Almost time.
“You play the long game,” Cathillyn finally spoke. “Is this what you want? Riches paid in blood?”
“Riches paid in words. I never raised a hand against our people.”
“Nor raise a hand for them. Do you even know what goes on outside your palace? I only saw you exit to let Celine in. What? Did you not recognize the Scarlet Widow?”
The traitor tensed.
The Scarlet Widow used her elven charm to lure humans into a literal death bed. She didn’t care so much about freedom as she did bloodshed. Childhood trauma did that to a girl. Cathillyn had found her and given her bloodshed purpose. They had first spoken last week. Now, the redheaded elf had her entire death squad dancing at the ball.
“You brought her here,” the traitor whispered. He looked around the room, spotting each of Cathillyn’s men. The young waiters standing near the human guests. The women dancing with the men. Some wore the blue pendant of an Owl, signifying their loyalty to Cathillyn. Others wore a vine bracelet with a rose woven into the design, expressing their loyalty to Celine’s Scarlet Widows. Others still had wheat patterns embroidered into their green costumes, expressing their loyalty to Fienn’s Rabid Hares. Three cells, all in one place, acting in unison.
“Fae,” the traitor cursed. “You’ve been planning this for years. Please. I was so close. The humans were about to let us practice our own religion again. Sing our own songs.”
“I see no gods here tonight,” Cathillyn said. “Hear no songs, but theirs. You don’t even speak our tongue. You are nothing than a puppet dancing for them. [May the moonlight our path home].”
“Stop this madness,” the traitor pleaded. “Tonight was supposed to show harmony between our races. Humans celebrating our holiday. This would begin talks for an elven renaissance. It took years to build trust. Yes, what happened to Aeth—your husband—was a tragedy, but think of the greater good. Freedom and peace among the races. Killing these men will not bring peace.”
“No. But it will bring justice.”
Cathillyn stood, drawing her sword. The blade was made of pure fire. Fasire, sword of the kings of old. It symbolized elven freedom. All eyes turned to face the pureblood holding the sacred weapon.
“I am Cathillyn, Daughter of Vortyr, Wife to the Fallen Aethor, and Leader of the Azure Owls. Tonight you celebrate the Spring Equinox of the Elves; a day meant to commemorate the Lady Fae’s escape from Tir na Marbh, ending Winter and ushering a new season for life. Tonight, you come here defiling our home, our traditions, our women. I am here tonight to usher in a new season as the Lady Fae intended. A season of hope for a brighter day. A season free from Cincara!”
A loud clapping came from the crowd. It was not from an elf. “I remember you!” the crowd parted to reveal a thin, pale man with mismatched eyes; one of gold, the other a pale blue. A scar ran across the bridge of his nose, reaching from his forehead to cheek. Despite his elegant regalia, the pale man’s hair was long and unkempt.
Cathillyn’s entire body tensed. Why had she not known the Caesar’s Hand would be here? How had she not accounted for the madman’s attendance?
“I remember you,” the Hand grinned. “My, how far you’ve come. Last I saw you, you lay nearly dead on the road to Quelk next to your less than breathing husband. Now his name I have forgotten (terribly sorry about that). But it is nice to see you still living, dare I say thriving?” The pale man took a step forward, spreading his arms. “How have you been Cathillyn, daughter of Vortyr, wife of that poor sod whose name escapes me, and leader of the Azure Owls?”
Forgetting the entire plan, not knowing what their original intent was, Cathillyn breathed a single order. The only thing that mattered at the moment. “Kill him.”
The elves sprung into action. A few rushed past the guards with their weapons drawn, forsaking the element of surprise. Luckily, the human nobles were completely surprised as their dancing partners slit their throats. The few who abandoned the plan, moving to kill the Hand, were quickly cut down.
“What have you done?” the traitor murmured. “All my progress down the river.”
Fiery sword blazing, Cathillyn turned to face him. “Not if you come with me.”
The traitor’s eyes widened in terror as the Azure Owl pulled him up. Fienn took the traitor’s other arm and they dragged him towards the kitchens, smoke pouring out.
The Hand continued to hold off the elves, their bodies piling up around him. Cathillyn grimaced as they continued to fall. How could one man kill so many? No, she corrected her thoughts. He was not a man, but a monster. A human. Guards poured into the chamber with shields raised. Their advance was practically instant.
“Retreat!” Cathillyn called.
The elves ran after Cathillyn, a few attempting to hold the rear as they were pressed backward. Idris pushed his way past with a flaming bottle in hand. He threw it into the wooden hall between them and humans, setting it ablaze.
“Shame to lose the last of our history,” Idris muttered as he rejoined Cathillyn.
“Shame we can’t finish the job,” Celine hissed as she joined them, wiping her bloodied knife on her scarlet dress.
“This was never the ending,” Cathillyn said. “Only the beginning. I will explain once we reach Fienn’s safehouse.”
“Fienn?” Celine asked. “What is that welp doing with us?”
“Right here,” Fienn said from the other side of their hostage. “Been looking forward to meeting the famous Scarlet Witch.”
“Wait until you meet the dwerg,” Idris chuckled.
“What the paradise is a dwerg doing in Evellon?” the Scarlet Widow asked.
“The same as you and me,” Cathillyn said. “Fighting for his freedom. You’ll meet the others at the safehouse.”
While the others retreated out of the servant’s quarters, Cathillyn and Fienn dragged the traitor onto their cart. Celine paused when she saw the dwerg before boarding the cart.
Orem gave them a confused look as Idris took up a seat next to them. “So we’re not killing him?” Orem asked.
The traitor jerked up in horror.
“No,” Cathillyn shook her head. “He is more useful to us alive. Our plan was always to take him alive. No need to undo all your hard work, right Dad?”
Vortyr, father of Cathillyn, winced as they pulled him onto the cart. “It’s not like I have a choice.” Orem whipped the reins and they were off, leaving Ydra blazing behind them. The humans would be too busy putting the fire out to pursue.
We'll catch up with Benrethor in chapter three next Tuesday (03/11) ;)
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