To Kill the Oak King
First published in Elf Love, Pink Narcissus Press, 2011.
Darian du Montague, heir apparent to the throne of Ersilia, near choked on his ale when I expressed my sudden desire to pillage his new guard’s codpiece.
Moreover, I began to question my intelligence as Darian’s face turned an alarming shade of red. Killing the son of one’s liege – even accidentally – was a terrible idea. One that led to being clamped in irons and subjected to prolonged torments at the hands of the King’s able torturers. At the least, I should have saved that comment until after he’d finished drinking. But good judgment had vanished several pints ago.
Fortunately, Darian soon ceased his sputtering. He slammed the tankard down on the table, ale sloshing, tossing back his head as he laughed heartily. His face was still flushed pink when he finally caught his breath. “Michael! I can’t believe you said that!”
I grinned down into my tankard. I certainly couldn’t be blamed for noticing the young and quite handsome new addition to the Crown Prince’s ever-present entourage. The guardsmen had followed us to the tavern, of course, but observed from the far side of the room, allowing Darian the illusion of freedom. There was no way they could have heard our conversation from that distance.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand after another swig. “Well, cousin,” I said lightly, “if my mother would stop hiring only female servants at Château du Tremontaine, then perhaps my bed wouldn’t be so empty.” I smiled slyly. “And, I must say, that new guard of yours does fill out that codpiece quite sufficiently. It leads me to speculate what else he could fill with it.”
Darian laughed again, so hard he had to cling to the table to keep from falling out of his chair. Finally he regained his composure. “Michael, you’re incorrigible.” He sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes. His expression suddenly grew grave. “If my brother-in-law ever heard you say such things...”
I grunted. The mention of Lorne du Beaumont was enough to sour anyone’s mood. Mine in particular. “Fortunately for me, then, that he resides at Château du Beaumont, far, far away.”
Darian had the bad habit of twisting a lock of his long, raven-black hair around his finger whenever he had something disagreeable to say, which is what he was doing now. “Ah. You haven’t heard the news, then.”
“Don’t tell me...”
“He’s here. With my sister.”
I groaned. “Why?”
Darian looked at me, half hazy from drink, half perplexed. “You really haven’t heard?” When I shook my head, he continued. “Ah, that’s right, you were a-hunting when it happened. There was trouble down in the slave quarters. A revolt.”
That caught me off guard. “The elves revolted?”
Darian squeezed his tankard with both hands, leaning across the table, his voice low. “It was over a fortnight ago. My father –” here Darian grimaced, “– well, you can imagine what happened.”
I shuddered. “A slaughter.”
“A slaughter.” Darian sighed, running a hand through his heavy hair before letting it fall back to his tankard. “They say the streets of the elf quarter were washed with blood. The instigators were caught, but my father considered it... prudent to summon Lorne to quell any further rebellion.”
That the elves in Ersilia were slaves was their punishment for warring – and consequently losing – against the humans. Except that the Elf Wars had been fought centuries ago, and the poor wretches now enslaved were several generations removed from the events which had merited that punishment. On the injustice of this matter, the prince and I were in accord, but we belonged to the silent minority.
I didn’t like this turn in the conversation. I forced a cheerful smile. “Well, when you take the throne, perhaps you can do something about it. Grant them a royal pardon, if you wish.”
Darian did not laugh as I expected. Instead, his face grew pale and he crossed his fingers as he tipped them towards the floor in a gesture to dispel evil. “Be careful, cousin,” he warned. “You speak too freely. If you do not learn to control your tongue, you will be drummed right out of court.”
I had drunk too much to care if I’d shocked the prince. After all, he had been my best friend since childhood, and was, in all likelihood, too deep in his cups to remember our conversation in the morning. I chuckled, then drawled, “Court, Darian? That dull place? Why, I long for the day.”
Darian sighed. “It’s late, cousin. We’ve tarried long enough.”
I realized just how drunk I was when the room spun as I near tumbled from my chair. Darian was having similar difficulty maneuvering around the table. Laughing once again and using each other for support, we staggered gracelessly out of the Silver Dragon. No doubt we made quite a spectacle of ourselves. Fortunately, disguised in our worn down boots and threadbare hooded cloaks, we easily passed for commoners in the slums.
Out in the street, it was cold, with scarce light to guide us back to the coach waiting around the corner. After the smoky lamps of the tavern, stepping outside was like being enveloped in a black velvet mantle.
What happened next was just a blur. Darian lost his footing, stumbling against a stone, dragging me along with him as his arm was still locked about my neck. As I reached out to steady us both, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a movement to our left.
A flash of silver blade cut through the dark. All at once it seemed I was shouting to Darian even as I shoved him away from me, groping for my sword. A clang of steel rang through the night as I raised my blade to meet that of the attacker. Unprepared, I staggered back, my arm numb from the fierce blow.
I saw no faces, only dark shapes of men and their advancing blades. I clumsily parried, dodged, then thrust. A weak thrust, easily turned aside, but I was not concerned about winning, instead focused on preventing them from reaching the prince.
The prince fared better than I, however. Blade drawn, he twisted away from danger like a cat, spinning to slash at his opponent. A pained yelp from below a hooded cowl confirmed a strike.
I hastened to block the blade sweeping towards my face, but my hilt became entangled in my cloak. Unseen hands pulled at my arm, causing me to trip over my own feet, and collide against a body which was not Darian’s. Then something hard cracked against the back of my head and the ground rushed up to meet me.
Stars bloomed in my vision as I sank, helpless as a worm in the dirt. There were noises, but muffled as though coming from a great distance: the musical clank of plated armor, the slither of swords, the shouts of the guards as they poured out of the tavern, the harsh kiss of steel, followed by hurried footfalls growing faint. The last thing I heard before the darkness claimed me was Darian screaming my name as his faithful guards spirited him away to safety.
...
I woke with the strands of my thoughts twisted like a cat’s cradle and slowly realized I was not dead. Although, considering the agony in my head, being dead may have been favorable.
Details of the previous night’s events were muddled. But I remembered that Darian had escaped unharmed. Convinced of the Prince’s safety, I sat up and turned to more pressing matters. The most pressing of which being that I was on a strange bed in a small, dingy room I didn’t recognize and that I wasn’t alone.
This last realization jolted me to full consciousness. There was nothing like danger to start the blood racing first thing in the morning. And the danger was clear, for the man so casually perched on the back of a chair near the window was not a man at all.
He was an elf.
Elves were not allowed freedom of movement beyond the walls of the slave quarters. If this elf were a slave, he was already a lawbreaker, and thus capable of other crimes. And if he weren’t from the elf quarter... then he posed an even greater threat.
For a moment we studied each other in silence. I do not know what the elf thought, for his expression was as blank as a moon mask.
He was a shadow, a vague outline dressed in black clothing cut in the latest Ersilian style. A dark cloak lay in a heap on the floor nearby, carelessly discarded and half covering a worn traveling pack. By the light of the window, I could make out his features plainly enough. Like a typical elf, he possessed all the aspects that court ladies longed for: slender of limb and body, eyes wide set and light in hue, a fine-boned face marked by a high forehead, a narrow nose, and full lips, all of which was crowned by an abundance of long hair shiny and fine as corn silk. The only difference between a lady’s ideal and the elf was the fact that the elf’s skin was the color of golden wheat, and that his hair was an unusual shade of silver which shone lavender in the sunlight, and that his ears, pierced through with silver clan rings, ended in fine points close to his head.
Despite the lack of color in his clothing, by the fine cut of them, along with the quality of his boots and the forbidden rings, he did not seem a slave.
My wits had recovered enough for me to realize that if the elf meant me harm, he could have easily killed me as I slept. Still, I only felt a bit more at ease when my gaze came to rest on my sword, propped against the wall near the bed, within reach.
“Who are you?” I asked. When the elf responded with stony silence, I let some temper color my tone. “What do you want from me?”
“I saved your life last night.”
I don’t know what surprised me more: his words, or the way in which he had spoken them. He had what my mother called a honey voice – one of those voices that was slow and sweet and sticky and would just get caught in your ear and make you forget your own name.
I remembered men in cloaks with long blades. There was the glint of a knife hilt in the elf’s boot, but he wore no sword. That did not mean that the elf had not been somehow involved in the skirmish. “You saved me?”
“I assure you that it was entirely unintentional.” The cold and calculating look he gave me nearly frosted my skin. “But, regardless of my intentions, there is a blood debt to be paid.”
I had no reason to trust him. And, despite any sympathy due the elves for their plight, I could not deny my duty. Montague blood flowed in my veins, and it was with the King that my loyalty lay, and the elves were still our enemy.
I lunged for my sword as I bounded from the bed. I had hoped to catch the elf off guard to disarm him, and yet, in the blink of an eye, I found myself against the wall, the sword forced from my hand and a knife pressed against my throat.
His face was still a mask, but the way his breath whistled short and rapid through his nostrils betrayed his unsteady state. He snarled stale breath into my face. “Would you like to try that again, human?” he demanded. “Or can you give me some reason to let you live?”
This close I could distinguish the color of his eyes, cold, pale amethysts, unflecked. By the look in them, I believed him capable of slitting my throat.
As we stared at each other, I considered my options. Given my disadvantage, the options were few. I sighed, resigned. “The blood debt,” I said reluctantly. “What would you have of me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Fool,” he muttered. For a moment I believed the insult was leveled at me, but he continued to murmur under his breath. “That I thought I could trust a human...”
“Then we are in the same bind. I do not trust you.”
The elf regarded me, wary. “You attacked me.”
“A poor decision, in retrospect,” I admitted. I watched the elf thinking, weighing his own options. I guessed the obvious. “You saved me for a reason.”
“If I let you go... no doubt you will bring the guard down upon my head.”
“If there is truly a blood debt between us, then I will give you my word on my honor as a knight that I will repay you,” I said, though I was quick to add, “as long as your request is reasonable.”
“Your word as a knight means little.”
“If that’s what you believe, then you know not what a knight is.”
“Oh, I know what a knight is. I know about your promises to serve God, king, and country. Your oath to protect the weak. The weak being women and children.” He sneered. “But only if they are of noble human blood.”
Under the elf’s relentless stare, I cast down my eyes. I could not deny what he said. I could only think of Lorne du Beaumont and feel ashamed to share the same rank and blood with a man such as him.
The knife suddenly withdrew. Glancing up, I saw the elf take a step back, tucking the dagger into a sheath hidden under the loose sleeve of his tunic. On his face, the same resignation I felt. Reluctantly, his gaze flickered to meet mine. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.
...
My cloak pulled tight around me, I trudged off to yet another herbalist’s shop.
In the merchant quarter, there was no need for the disguise. Still, I did not wish to risk being recognized fortuitously by a passing acquaintance. By now, word had already spread about last night’s adventure, and, all things considered, it was likely that the guard was trying to determine my whereabouts. And, though the thought of Darian worrying over me was a troubling one, I did not wish to be distracted from my task.
Although none would hold it against me were I to break my promise, I had been sincere in giving my word to the elf. In truth, I was motivated by something other than the dubious claim of a blood debt. Apart from the occasional outings incognito with Darian, life at court truly was dull. Encountering the elf had been the most interesting thing that had happened in a very long time.
The task he had set me, however, was neither dangerous nor difficult, and scant repayment for a blood debt. As if I were a mere servant girl, he’d sent me out with a list of items scratched out on a scrap of parchment. What he needed them for, he’d refused to say. Some I recognized as herbs, but the rest were unfamiliar. I had asked him if he meant to brew some magical concoction with them. Although use of magic was forbidden on the point of death, there were rumors that the elves still practiced it in secret. However, I mused, if the elves truly did possess magic, then it was too weak to do them any good.
What seemed like an easy task turned out impossible. Every shopkeeper I queried was unable to recognize all the items on the elf’s list, much less aid me in finding them. Finally admitting defeat, there was little else to do but return to the elf in the upstairs room of the inn not far from the Silver Dragon where I had left him.
My first thought upon entering the room was that the elf was gone. I didn’t realize he was standing behind me until he spoke. “Did you bring everything I need?”
Startled, I turned. His face was still a mask, but I noted a tension around his mouth. I sighed and told him how I had fared.
The elf made a small noise of disgust. “I set you a simple task, human,” he growled. “One that even a child could have managed. You’re useless.”
I bristled at the insult. Reaching into my tunic, I drew out the scrap of parchment. “Eye of bluebells? Dragon drop blood? White maiden tears?” I waved it in his face. “What are these? Ingredients for some poisonous elixir?”
The elf glared at me.
I crumpled the parchment in my fist. “If you know magic, elf, then why don’t you just cast some spell instead of wasting my time? Turn yourself invisible and take what you want. Or... or... or conjure the ingredients out of thin air!”
Anger sparked in the elf’s eyes. “You stupid human,” he growled. “You understand nothing of magic.”
“Is that so? Explain it to me, then.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You... uh... huh...”
The elf trailed off, his words turning into a groan as he suddenly pitched forward.
Instinctively I moved to catch him. Darian stumbled much when he was drunk, so I’d had years of practice. Unlike Darian, however, as my hand skimmed over his waist, the elf emitted a whimper of pain. Surprised, I slid my hand back under his ribs. This elicited another whimper as sharp nails dug into my shoulders. Lifting my hand, I saw that it was wet with blood. “You’re injured.”
The nails burrowed deeper into my flesh as the elf panted in my ear. “I’m... not... don’t... uhhh...”
Carefully I maneuvered him the three paces to the bed. Leaning over him, I wasn’t really surprised to note that the cold mask from before had completely disintegrated, that his face was a wide-eyed mix of pain and fear. “I’m going to take a look.”
The elf made a noise which I interpreted to be permission.
Peeling the tunic away from his body, I was surprised that he’d been able to hide his injury for so long. He’d been caught by the edge of some sort of blade, which had left a nasty gash that began a finger’s width from the edge of his breeches and curved all the way up to the edge of his ribs. And, worse, the wound was festering. The sick smell of it near turned my stomach. “When did this happen?”
“Last... night. While... trying to... escape.”
That it was festering this badly and so soon seemed impossible. But men knew little about elf physiology. Nonetheless, I knew that something had to be done, and quickly. “It’s bad,” I said. “It will need to be stitched shut. And you’ll need to cleanse out the wound because it’s infected.”
His hands clutched at the sheets as his face twisted in agony. “I... uh... I need...”
“You need a healer.”
“No!” He jerked in the bed, a move which then left him gasping in pain. I put my hands on his shoulders, easing him back down. Below my hands his skin was feverishly hot. “No healers.”
“If you don’t get a healer, you’ll probably die.”
I had spoken plain truth. The elf was quiet for a moment. I imagined we were thinking the same thing. A King’s Hands could save him, perhaps, were he to turn himself in, but the best he could hope for was a quick death if they believed him a runaway, rather than a slow and painful death if they believed him a spy.
Fevered, half-delirious, his eyes had taken on a glazed appearance. His honey voice had gone soft. “Eye of... bluebells. Dragon drop... blood. Need them... for a healing salve.”
I thought. “Perhaps the herbalist has something. I could go...”
“No. Human remedies will not... work.”
I leaned back with a sigh, running a hand through my tangled hair, trying to think, and half-hoping that the elf wasn’t going to suggest what I suspected he was going to suggest. And, of course, he did.
“You have to go... there. Find... Grandmother Clock. Tell her... it’s for me.”
I didn’t have to ask where “there” was. And I didn’t bother to ask where to find this “Grandmother Clock.” But there was one other problem. “I don’t even know your name.”
The pale eyes closed. Lying still, he looked almost peacefully asleep. But then he sighed softly. “Gray.”
“Well, Gray,” I said. “Do you really think I can just waltz in ‘there’ and get what you need?”
He answered without opening his eyes. “Of course,” he said softly. “Because you... are Sir Michael the Fair.”
...
The streets of the elf quarter were unusually quiet.
At one time, the elf quarter had been the poorer part of town, so it had never been a luxurious or beautiful place. Hundreds of years later, though, it was a shadow even of the slums. Roads and buildings were in disrepair, statues and archways eroded by time, stone and wood sun-bleached. Other than the people who lived here, all colors were variations on gray.
Gray. An odd name for an elf, and probably an alias. He had not revealed to me how he knew my name, and I had not pressed him. Instead, I had set my concerns aside and had hastened to the elf quarter.
Despite the lack of activity in the streets, I managed to find Grandmother Clock with ease by asking the first elf I found. He led me to a small hovel at the end of the street, where a silver-haired elf cautiously listened to my plea. Within moments, I had procured the rest of the ingredients for Gray’s balm.
In my haste, I had not considered the price of this exchange. In the elf quarters, coin was worthless. Foodstuffs would have been considerably welcome, yet I had nothing but my purse, my blade, and the clothes on my back.
I offered my cloak. Although threadbare, it would be treasured here, particularly with winter coming soon. She took it with a faint smile, and I was out on the streets again, more puzzled than before.
I was certain that Grandmother Clock had recognized Gray’s name. And yet, if he were not a runaway slave, then there was no logical reason for her to know him. That my own name was recognized by the elves was no surprise. Although the elves were forbidden to leave the quarter without a work permit, men were free to come and go as they pleased. The first time Darian and I had ventured here, we had been motivated by boyish curiosity. Seeing the miserable conditions in which the elves were forced to live, however, our interest in their fate had evolved. To keep abreast of the situation here, Darian used me as his eyes and ears. Later he set me the task of distributing much needed goods – food, clothing, blankets and the like. Not allowed to reveal the Prince’s name, I had developed the reputation as generous benefactor among the elves.
I was nearly at the gate when I heard the screams.
A small rational part of me thought to turn away. If the King’s guard were here, I had little reason to interfere. Furthermore, if the Prince had given orders to have me seized, there would be nothing I could do to keep the guard from dragging me back to the castle. And yet, even as I thought this, my feet were drawing me towards the sound.
Turning the corner, I found the source. Two guardsmen held a female elf between them, laughing viciously as they played a cruel tug-of-war with her limbs. Another elf was being dragged from a hovel by her golden hair, her clothing in tatters. Within the hovels, hideous screams mingled with telling grunts. Along the street stood more guardsmen, the sun beating down on the glistening white enamel and steel scale of their armor, as red blood dripped from their blades.
In the shadows I glimpsed the children, torn from their mothers’ skirts, and the sight of them, more than anything else, filled me with rage.
I strode forward, my hand itching over the pommel of my sword, speaking with my father’s voice. “What in God’s name is going on here?”
It was a voice that roared, that voice of the Duke of Tremontaine. One that permitted no disobedience. At the sound of it, all who stood before me cringed. All was quiet but for the soft sobbing of an elf as she slumped to the ground.
The soldiers stared at me. One murmured my name. And then, as if a signal had been silently sounded, the soldiers’ eyes turned towards a man whose back was to me.
He was a tall man, slender-bodied, narrow hipped, but broad of shoulder, wearing a long coat of embroidered red velvet, down which coursed a river of heavy black hair captured by a loosely tied red ribbon. I had not expected to see him here. “Darian?”
As he turned, my heart sank. It was not Darian at all.
It was Lorne du Beaumont.
I cursed myself for my error even as Lorne approached me, wearing a creamy smile not dissimilar to the one that a cat wears as it traps a mouse beneath its paw. “Sir Michael. What a pleasant surprise. Come to enjoy the festivities?”
“Sir Lorne,” I said in polite acknowledgment. “What are you doing here?”
“Quelling the rebellion,” he said. His gaze swept over me as his fingers twitched artlessly around the lace cuffs of his sleeves. “You know, cousin, I was about to ask you the same thing. Running around the elf quarter, with all the trouble that’s been going on... what were you thinking?”
I knew what Lorne thought of me. At best, a foolish courtier. I threw myself into the role by giving him my haughtiest smile. “I was bored, really,” I drawled, and then sighed. “All this talk at court about the revolt. Well. I decided to see for myself what all the fuss was about.”
Again the dark-lashed green eyes swept over me, assessing. “I suppose matters of state would be boring to someone like you,” he said, trying to bait me. I did not rise to take it, so he continued. “Well, since you are here... perhaps we can devise some entertainment for you.”
I suppressed a shudder at the thought of Lorne’s idea of “entertainment.” As a boy, he had taken great delight in tormenting small animals before moving on to serving girls, wenches, and numerous other victims. As to the nature of Lorne’s torments, I knew them all too well.
Before I could form a polite refusal and make my excuses to slip away, Lorne snapped his fingers at the nearest guard, who scuttled towards us, dragging an elf girl by the arm. Gracefully, Lorne seized the girl, tearing her shift, then thrust her towards me, holding her at arm’s length. An offering.
An elf’s age was hard for humans to judge, but the girl seemed precisely that. On a small frame, her budding breasts quivered as Lorne twisted her spine. Over her shoulder, Lorne smiled at me as though he were offering me a dram of tea. “Does this one please you, cousin?” he purred. “I assure you, she’s scarcely been used.”
As the guards laughed, I bit my tongue. Lorne had always been adept at playing the swaggering braggart among the soldiers, but I was in no mood to participate in that game.
He stepped forward, trailing one gloved finger across the girl’s cheek. “She is a rose, cousin, ripe for the plucking. Does she not set your blood on fire and your staff at attention?” Lorne paused as the guards laughed again. I remained silent. Lorne looked at the girl, then his eyes met mine. “Of course if she’s not to your taste, perhaps we could find you a pretty little elf boy to take behind the stables?”
In those words, a memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old again, the victim in Lorne’s sadistic game. My tongue had still been between my teeth, and now I tasted blood and bitter rage. I hated Lorne du Beaumont with a hatred I had not known I possessed. I wanted to kill him.
I wanted to kill him. But I could not. With the scrap of self-control that still remained, I smiled at Lorne and spoke through gritted teeth. “Not at all, Lorne. I am merely not interested. The elves, they’re so dirty. Probably diseased, as well. Truly, I find the idea of even touching one quite distasteful.”
Lorne studied me for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself, Sir Michael.”
In all haste, I took my leave. Though I still felt ill, my breathing had steadied by the time I reached the gate. I was halfway to the slums before my rage finally abated. And it was only when I passed by the Silver Dragon did I recall the words Gray had spoken about a knight’s oath to protect the weak, and I did not favor myself very much in that moment.
...
I forgot all about Lorne and my self-pity when the elf damned me to hell.
After the damning, he heaped insults upon me. The insults were followed by an impressive string of curses – some of them new to me and colorful enough to make a hardened soldier blush. And, finally, once he had run out of curses I could understand, he hissed and screamed in what I presumed to be his native elfin tongue.
I could not blame him. The gash was long and the bone needle thick and the pain must have been excruciating. His cursing and insults did not distract me from the task of sewing him back together. However, his constant thrashing did.
I lost my patience. “I cannot fix you if you don’t hold still!”
Gray muttered a feeble curse.
Sighing, I rubbed my fingers, stiff from holding the needle so tightly. “Listen, Gray,” I said. “We are halfway through the stitching. I cannot continue like this. I must insist. The binding or the elfweed. Choose.”
An hour had passed since my return from the elf quarters. In that time, I had tended to Gray, cleaning his wound, preparing and then applying the healing balm. None of it had been pleasant, but he had borne it well enough. When the moment of the stitching arrived, however, I had suggested he allow me to bind him to the bed. Or that he ingest the elfweed I had brought.
That Gray had refused both did not surprise me. Although he needed me, there was not enough trust between us that he would agree to being bound. The same applied to the elfweed.
Elfweed was used for two reasons. For one, it dulled an elf’s senses and kept him submissive. Second, it was quite effective in banishing both pain and fatigue, thus an injured or exhausted slave could be made to work longer and harder. Elfweed was the elves’ version of man’s poppy. And, like the poppy, an elf who was given too much elfweed soon developed a sickness for it. This sickness was so common that it had earned the nickname “the weed demon.”
Gray grew still and his breathing slowed as I waited for his answer. Pale and exhausted, he seemed halfway across death’s threshold. He stared at me for a long time. Finally he squeezed his eyes shut, making a strange little noise, and when he spoke, his voice was faint. “The elfweed.”
It was a good choice – for me at least. Once the elfweed had taken effect, I was able to finish the stitching in no time, and I was certain that the patient no longer felt a thing. Soon I had knotted the thread into place, applied some more balm, and loosely bandaged his wound.
I had been sitting on the edge of the bed and was about to rise when his hand upon my arm stopped me. His voice floated up from far away. “Arisal...”
I looked down at Gray. The elfweed had left his body limp and his eyes heavy-lidded. The previous tension had drained from his face, leaving it smooth like porcelain. With his mouth slack and his strange silvery hair spilling across the bed, he reminded me of a woodcut of a most beautiful dying mermaid in a book I’d owned as a child.
“Who’s Arisal?” I asked. An elfin name, male. He did not reply. His hand remained on my arm. Though, given the amount of elfweed I’d shoveled into him, I was certain he had just forgotten it was there.
This thought led to another. An unfair thought, to be sure, but, given the situation, I had no reason to be fair. “Gray? May I ask you a question?”
His eyelids, already heavy, drooped. He made a small non-committal hum.
“Tell me. How did you know my name?”
That honey voice of his was soft and dreamy. “Hmm? Oh. All the elves... know of you...”
“The elves in the slave quarter know of me. You’re not a slave. Where are you from?”
“From... Sithcythril.”
The way he spoke it, in a whisper like a caress, his voice accent-thick, I near didn’t recognize the word. But it was a name I knew well from the history books. Sithcythril: from whence the elfin army swooped down on their demon steeds in an unholy crusade against the Montagues. Sithcythril: seat of an ancient kingdom, and home to the free elves of the world. Sithcythril: a name forbidden to speak, so that even the elfin slaves called it, as the common people did, Elfland.
“You’re far from home, then. Why are you in Ersilia?”
“Sent here... a contract...”
“What sort of contract?”
One amethyst eye cracked open briefly, then closed again. “You ask... too many questions.”
“I’m a very curious man,” I said. Elfweed did much to loosen an elf’s inhibitions, but as a serum of truth-telling, it was not always reliable. I studied Gray, thinking about how expertly he had disarmed me, how quick to draw the knife, and the murder I had read in his eyes. Although I did not want to hear the answer, I asked the question all the same. “Gray, this contract... are you an assassin?”
The eyelid flickered again. Gray grunted softly. “You’re too curious,” came his hazy voice. “Now... leave me alone.”
“Fine,” I replied lightly. “Just as long as it wasn’t me you were sent to kill.”
“No... not you.”
It took me a moment to fully understand the implications of those words. If not me, then... well, then someone else. I was not certain if I wanted to know the name of the assassin’s victim. I was far too involved with the elf as it was. On the other hand, Gray’s presence outside the Silver Dragon last night, at the very moment in which Darian and I were attacked, was suspicious. If I had believed that Darian was the elf’s target, I would have slain him on the spot.
I did not believe it. I remembered the hands which had pulled me out of harm’s way. The elf had saved me. If Darian had been his target, he would have gained a perfect opportunity to kill him were I to have died before the guard’s arrival.
At the end of my silent debate, I decided it would be better to know. “Gray?”
My only response was Gray’s quiet breath. While I was wavering in indecision, Gray’s hand had slipped from my arm, down to the bed. The elfin assassin was asleep.
...
I spent the following days nursing Gray back to health.
Other than taking leave for provisions or to avail myself of the public baths, I spent most of that time in the room. The elf passed the days asleep or in an elfweed haze. The former was rather dull, yet no more boring than court, but the latter was interesting indeed.
Although I wouldn’t have said so to him, I preferred the drugged, submissive version of the elf better than the tough, menacing one. In that unfeeling state, he spoke freely, responding to most of my questions. Certain ones he refused to answer – such as his age. Elves did not age as humans did, showing their years on their faces, and for this it was once believed they were immortal. The silvered hair was the only indication I had, and I supposed him the age of my father.
Despite the fact that much of what he revealed was vague, I was fascinated by his fairy tale like accounts of Sithcythril, the free elves, and magic. Not all elves could do magic. Only those gifted were permitted to train with the wizards. The wizards also served the purpose of reading a child’s gifts at birth, an act which determined his or her fate. Gray’s gifts were known as the “triple dark.” Those born with this rare combination were given the name “shadow children” and trained as spies, assassins, and concubines.
That a male had been trained in the pleasure arts intrigued more than his training as a spy and assassin concerned me. In Ersilia, those were common enough. Even the King had his own reserve of assassins, referred to as a “necessary evil.” Although the noble houses were all bound by blood, our history was replete with usurping brothers, uncles, sons, and, on one occasion, at least, a tenacious second cousin.
For four days I tended him, conversed with him, and told him tales from Ersilian history which seemed to amuse him, as much as anyone in an elfweed haze could be amused. And in that time, in our private pigeonhole, a tenuous trust built up between us.
Reality crashed into the pigeonhole on the fifth day.
On the morning of the fifth day I had gone, as was my habit, to the baker’s for sticky buns, then to the Silver Dragon where the tavernkeep’s wife would sell me a dram of strongly-brewed black tea, and carry all back to the inn. Gray was usually asleep when I returned, but on this morning he was awake, and lucid.
He refused the usual elfweed but accepted the offer of tea. With my help, he managed to sit up in bed and take the cup, though he held it unsteadily with both hands.
I sat down in the room’s only chair and watched as Gray slowly raised the cup to his lips. I chuckled at the sour expression he made. He scowled down into the cup as though its contents had insulted him. “What is this?”
“It’s tea,” I said. “The same tea you’ve been drinking for days, in fact.”
Gray’s look was skeptical.
“Well, it’s all we have, so drink up. It’s certainly strong enough to put some much-needed hair on your chest.”
“Elves don’t have hair on their chests,” he mumbled, but drank the tea anyway.
The sticky buns, soft and still warm from the oven, were good at least. We gobbled every crumb, washing them down with the rest of the tea. Then I set the cups aside and turned to consider the elf.
Amethyst eyes met mine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
In truth, I had been wondering at the fact that, after four days bedridden with no comb in sight, in that long abundance of silk hair not a single tangle appeared. My own was the impossibly thick mop of unruly black curls typical of the nobility, and I felt a pang of envy. And I had... well, in all truth, I had been wondering how it would feel to run my fingers through those luscious, silvery strands.
Instead, I said, “I should look at your stitches.”
He leaned back as I knelt before him, unwinding the bandages. Carefully I prodded the edge of his wound. Gray made a small hiss of pain, but otherwise remained still, which I took as a promising sign. Though not completely healed, the previous swelling had diminished and there was no longer any sign of infection.
Next I fetched the healing salve and fresh bandages. Meticulously I applied the salve to the wound and at the edges of each stitch. Examining them again, it struck me that the elf had healed quickly, and that stitches could come out in a few days.
My eyes and hands were focused on the task, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Without raising my eyes, I asked, “Gray? Who is Arisal?”
There was a pause before he spoke. “I said his name?”
With surprise, I looked up at him. “You don’t remember?”
Gray sighed, lifting a hand to rub his face. “No. I remember.” His mouth tightened. By his expression I could see his quiet struggle. And the clear pain there made me sorry I had asked.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s just...” He twisted each of his clan rings before lowering his hand to the bed. “He was my son.”
I drew back, wiping the traces of the sticky balm from my fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Gray laughed, a dry, hollow and pained sound. “You can’t understand. No one can understand how it feels to lose a child. Not unless he has lost one himself. Only then...”
“How did he die?”
Gray’s voice was flat. “He was killed.”
I knew not what to say. What could one say in the face of such tragedy? Also, his revelation had surprised me. I had not expected an assassin to have a family. Perhaps he had other children waiting for him in Sithcythril. A wife.
I felt like a fool.
Gray sighed. “Michael. Please. Let’s talk about something else.”
None of what he had revealed changed how it felt to have that honey voice wrapped around my name. It was like a caress, like wax melting below a flame. It rankled me how he could do that so easily, unaware. “Certainly,” I said, using my courtier voice – airy and indifferent. “Why don’t we talk about your contract, then? Who are you supposed to kill?”
He studied me, his expression guarded. “Why are you asking me this now?”
I shrugged, then picked up the bandages, retuning to my task. “Perhaps I wanted to give you the chance to have a clear head when I asked.”
Gray was quiet as I wound the bandages around him. I was certain that he was not going to answer, but then he did, in a tone both soft and deadly.
“He must pay.”
I leaned back on my heels. “Who must pay?” I asked, though one thing was clear: only the wealthy could afford an assassin’s high price. And the victims were rarely commoners. “What nobleman? What House?”
Gray, silent, did not meet my gaze.
I thought I’d put all previous doubts to rest, yet now they surfaced. I snapped at him. “Why?”
Gray stared down at his own hands, pale-knuckled, twisting the sheets. It wasn’t so much that he spoke as forced out the bitter words. “He must pay... for what he did to the elves.”
I had an epiphany. It seemed to me that my heart ceased to beat, and that the space in my head had suddenly grown too large, making me dizzy. I choked on a weak laugh. Gray’s head jerked up, and on his face an expression of surprise.
“I know who you must kill,” I said. “It’s Lorne du Beaumont.”
...
Scarcely were the words out of my mouth that I took my leave. Abruptly.
I could not stay in the room, yet I could not go home. My arrival at Château du Tremontaine would be unexpected. Once I had made my decision to tend the elf, I had written to my mother to inform her that I would be staying with a friend until the Winter Masque, and had paid an urchin to deliver it.
Without a destination, I wandered the streets, my thoughts tumbling like acrobats. I hated Lorne du Beaumont. I had even wished him dead. But despite my feelings, Lorne was still of noble blood, husband to my cousin, and son-in-law to my liege, the King. To allow him to be murdered in cold blood would be treason.
To murder him in any blood would be a community service.
I passed the day with inner turmoil as my only company. It took me some time to admit, even to myself, that much of that turmoil was caused by the fact that Gray, injured, had little chance to succeed. In his current state, he could barely walk, much less kill a man. And time was running out – Lorne would be returning home long before Gray’s injuries healed. These thoughts also troubled me and I struggled to convince myself to the contrary. There was scant reason for me to help him. The blood debt had been sufficiently repaid when I saved his life. He was little more than a stranger. He was an assassin. He was merely an elf.
That last thought surprised me. My father’s voice again, but in my head where it did not belong. “Merely” was not apt to describe Gray. Despite the dulling effects of the elfweed, there had been hints of a keen intelligence and sharp wit below the haze. That he was an assassin spoke little of his character – a decision made for him at his birth.
It was after a third pint of ale in a tavern at the edge of town that I finally resigned myself to the possession of this knowledge.
When I entered the room, Gray was sitting in the bed with his back to the wall and his legs drawn up, a dagger ready in his hand. Recognizing me, his face flooded with relief. Seeing that clear need I suddenly felt bad for having abandoned him for so long. Outside, daylight was already waning.
In silence, Gray watched as I pulled out the feast I’d brought: meat pies, honeycakes, cheese, fruit, a jug of wine. He did not speak until we were halfway through the meal. “I didn’t think you would come back.”
“I almost didn’t.”
We spoke no more as we ate. After, I cleared away the crumbs, set aside the remaining honeycakes for the morning, and poured us each some wine. Then I withdrew the final item from my sack: a deck of cards. Sitting down on the bed opposite Gray, I shuffled the cards and began to deal them out.
Gray cocked his head. “What are you doing?”
I set the deck on the space between us and turned four cards face up. “I’m teaching you how to play Spit.”
The elf looked at me, clearly puzzled. “It sounds unsanitary,” he decided. “Why?”
I gestured at him to pick up the hand I’d dealt him. “Because that’s what men do when they need a distraction from the harshness of life. They drink and play cards.”
Gray gave me a skeptical look, but picked up his cards.
I spent some time teaching him how to play. In Spit, there were a lot of trump cards, but Gray memorized them quickly. Once he had a grasp of the rules, we played a few rounds open-handed and then I reshuffled the deck.
“What kind of game is this?” he asked as I dealt the first round.
“The kind that’s played in taverns. Normally, the loser must drink. The game ends when the players pass out. Given your condition, however, I suggest a different penalty.”
“Such as?”
“The loser must answer any question of the winner’s choosing. Truthfully.”
Gray’s eyes glittered with interest as he considered my proposal. Then his lips curled into a cunning smile. “I agree.”
...
We played cards until late in the night, and thus it was near midday when I woke. I left the honeycakes for Gray and decided to break my fast after a visit to the public baths.
Upon my return, I found Gray out of bed. Using the wall for support, he was slowly inching around the room. Given his expression, either the movement pained him or his mood was just foul, so I spoke cautiously. “Gray? Have you eaten yet? I brought you some tea. There’s some honey in it this time. And what are you doing?”
“I’m sick of being in that bed,” he said. “I need to get up and move around to regain my strength.”
“I was always told that a sick man had to stay in bed to regain his strength.”
“I’m not a man,” Gray muttered.
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to reopen your wound. In fact, you could make it worse. And don’t expect me to be able to stuff all your guts back in if they happen to fall out.”
He snorted. “You sound like a nursemaid.”
“I thought elves didn’t have nursemaids.”
“No, but you told me all about yours during that silly game last night.” He shifted his hand against the wall, the other thoughtfully twisting the rings in his ear. “Do all humans spill their secrets as easily as you do? If so, that would make my job much simpler.”
The quip on my tongue dissolved as a knock came at the door.
Gray and I both froze. Judging that he would not be seen from the hall where he stood, I gestured at him to stay still, then I moved to the door, opening it a crack.
A young boy thrust a folded bit of parchment at me. I recognized him as being the same boy I had sent to deliver the letter to my mother a few days ago. “Letter for you, Sir Michael.”
Having sent the boy away with a coin, I sat down on the chair, turning the folded square of parchment over in my hands. I recognized Darian’s elegant script even before I broke his seal.
The letter was brief. After his apologies for having left me in the fray came a severe chastising for my subsequent disappearance and causing him concern. This was followed by his relief the next day when his brother-in-law informed the court of my presence in the elf quarter. Then he finished the letter with a demand that I tell him everything at the Winter Masque tomorrow night, which I was obligated to attend.
Below the decadent slant of his signature, he had added in postscript a clever insinuation about my new “friend” and his codpiece that caused me to laugh.
If only... I thought.
“Must be amusing that letter.”
I looked at Gray. He had arrived at the window and was leaning against the frame, looking out. He had swept up all his hair and was holding it aloft, revealing the bones of the long, delicate nape of his neck.
I had a sudden vision of myself rising from the chair, crossing the room, and kissing the back of Gray’s elegant neck. So vivid was this vision, I could feel the heat of his body to mine, and taste his skin on my lips.
Gray turned to meet my eyes. For a moment he stared at me as if puzzled.
I promptly folded up the letter, tucking it into my tunic. “Shall we play cards?”
For the rest of the day we played, stopping only to sup. Instead of playing Spit again, I taught him Devil’s Maw, another tavern game, and Queen’s Knight, a game popular at court. Although we did converse, Gray did not ask me about the letter. Nor did we speak of Lorne du Beaumont.
Instead, as we played, we philosophized about truth, love and beauty, recited what poetry we knew in our respective tongues, recreated the Elf Wars with our words, and talked at length about food. Also, as we played, I would often catch him casting me a strange, questing look that I could not decipher and he would not explain. And then the hour grew late.
I set aside the cards, put out the lamp, and stretched out on my usual place on the floor. Yet I could not sleep, thinking about the Winter Masque. I had made no arrangements for my costume, but it was probable that my mother had arranged it months ago. I would have to go home then to change before heading to court. I would have to remember to leave Gray enough provisions before I left. I would have to –
Gray’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Sleeping like that – it can’t be comfortable.”
I leaned up on my elbow and looked to the bed. I could just barely make out his face by the moonlight coming through the window. “It’s not, but you’re the injured one, so you get the bed.”
I heard the sound of sheets sliding as Gray shifted over. “There’s enough room for two.”
I considered his offer. I was too tempted to accept it. “That isn’t a good idea,” I said. “You don’t know... what I am.”
“I know what you are.”
I was certain that he had misunderstood me. I tried again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know what I’m asking.”
I frowned. “Gray...”
“I was trained in all the sexual delights,” he murmured invitingly. “Would you like me to show them to you?”
A shiver ran through me. Suddenly I understood the meaning of that look he had been giving me all day. That honey voice got all caught up in my ear, making my thoughts impossible and sticky. Before I knew it I was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over Gray, looking down into those strange, elfin eyes.
His light hand danced over my face, then my lips, moving as if sketching out a magical spell of aching and longing. Then his hand trailed down my chest, slender fingers expertly unknotting the laces on my shift as they traveled, exploring.
In a moment of clarity, I moved to stay his hands with my own. “You’re injured.”
His eyes were like smoke. A seductive smile played upon his lips as his hands curled up around my shoulders. His voice was a teasing caress. “I’m not that injured,” he said, and pulled me down to the bed.
...
There was a painstaking care to what we did that night. Yet his skill was such that those acts were no less the pleasurable for it, and each delight he showed me hinted at the possibility of even greater pleasures yet to be revealed.
I didn’t know if the thought of what he could do were he uninjured alarmed or intrigued me. Entangled in his velvet limbs as his sweat cooled on my skin and night drew to an end, I only knew the truth in my heart.
“Gray,” I swore, “I will be your blade. I will kill Lorne du Beaumont.”
...
I arrived late at the Winter Masque.
From past experience I knew that preparations for the Winter Masque had been taking place for days. The Great Hall was lit with both torches and lanthorns, festooned with the last of the season’s flowers, painted silk banners fluttered from the ceiling beams, and the floors had been cleared of rushes for dancing. In one corner a miniature village made of corn husks had been constructed to delight the young, and there was music, food, and drink in abundance for all.
I arrived late enough that most of the revelers were deep in their cups, and the more promiscuous members of the court were occupied with flirting their way into a reckless tryst. My arrival thus garnered little attention, as intended.
Earlier that afternoon, Gray had told me of his plan. Costumed, the assassin would attend the Masque, lure his target to a shadowy place to kill him, and then slip away in the night. I had thought it an impossibly simple plan until he unraveled all its details before my eyes.
It would begin, he said, by walking through the palace gate.
The Long Night was celebrated by all Ersilians in the same manner, with feasting, dancing, and costumes. The only difference between the commoners and the nobility was the amount of excess. At the castle, everything was far more elaborate, particularly the costumes. It was a long-standing tradition in court that each year’s costume not only outshine everyone else’s, but outshine one’s own costume from previous Masques. In fact it was common that the day after the Winter Masque, certain court ladies – and quite a few lords – would begin planning the costume for the following year’s festival.
There were no invitations required to attend. In fact, the costume served to hide the identity of every guest. Anyone could gain entrance simply by appearing at the gate in an appropriately decadent masque.
When I expressed my skepticism, Gray instructed me to open his pack. Reaching in, my fingers touched upon something soft, and I pulled it out.
Feathers had been in vogue at court of late, so much so that Darian had amused me with a quip about the sorry lot of so many bald birds in Ersilia, so the robe I pulled from Gray’s pack was thus the height of fashion. Long, green feathers, deepening in hue, swept from the collar down to the floor. More feathers adorned the hood, framed with the eyes of peacock tails. The sleeves and collar were trimmed in cloth-of-gold, with tiny roses stitched in silver thread. It was exquisite. Exquisite, too, was the face mask, painted gold, with hooded eyes and jutting down to the chin, hinting at a bird’s beak. Soft boots the same color gold as the mask completed the ensemble.
The last thing Gray did before I took my leave was to fasten the sheath of his hidden knife on my arm, and teach me how to draw it without catching the loose sleeve of the feathered robe.
In this disguise would I need to find Lorne and lure him to his death. Except, as I quite bluntly pointed out to Gray, he would also be disguised, and thus, it would be impossible for me to recognize him.
To that, Gray smiled a strange little enigmatic smile. “You must kill the Oak King.”
Using legends was a common theme at the Masques, and I did not question the fact that Lorne would choose such an ancient, powerful, and blatantly virile god as his masque. I did, however, question Gray’s method of acquiring this information. A costume for the festival was a coveted secret, revealed only at the end of the Masque itself.
Gray sneered. “Whose hands do you think stitched every feather of your cloak until they bled? Elven hands, Michael. Who do you think breaks their backs tilling your fields, building your walls, and polishing the floors of your halls? Who cooks your food, scrubs your chamberpots, and spreads their legs for the nobles’ lust? Elves, Michael. Whose ears hear all your dirty secrets and lies because you think them deaf and dumb and unworthy of your notice?” His eyes flashed murder. “And who washed the streets of the elf quarter with the blood of the innocent? Raped our wives and murdered our children? Men.”
His venom shocked me. “Gray! I’m on your side.”
The hatred drained from his expression. He hung his head, staring at the cup of tea trembling in his hands. “I know that,” he said softly. “I know you’re different. That’s why I...”
He trailed off suddenly, leaving me in an anxious state. I could sense the import of the words he’d left unspoken. And yet, a part of me did not want to hear them. Not when a missing piece of the puzzle had just clicked into place. “You saw it, didn’t you? You were there during the slaughter.”
Gray explained. He had been hiding in the elf quarter for months, plotting and making his arrangements. Where better for an elf to hide than among elves? But he refused to speak of the horrors he had seen, and I had not pressed him.
Instead I had gone home to fetch the costume my mother had arranged. Once Lorne was dead, I was to quickly change from the feathered cloak into the other costume, at which point “Sir Michael” would make his appearance, and the “assassin” would have disappeared.
Having entered the Palace, I had stashed Sir Michael’s costume in a dark niche near the Great Hall – a particularly good place I’d often used when Darian and I had played hide and seek. Then I made my way into the Great Hall, and cast about my gaze.
I saw him across the room, conversing with a woman all in white, a silver goblet held casually aloft in one hand. He wore a long coat of green velvet, craftily adorned with leaves and twigs. More leaves were entwined in his long black hair, falling loose about his face fully covered by a deer-horned mask of brown leather.
I stopped a servant and bid her deliver a note to the Oak King.
I watched as he took the note, unfolded it, and read it. Upon the note I had written:
Cousin,
I must speak to you urgently about a private matter.
I will await you at the next hour strike behind the stables.
Tell no one.
M
He lowered his hand and directed a question at the serving girl. Following her gesture with his eyes, he found me. For a moment he looked at me as if puzzled. Or rather, I imagined his puzzlement – from where I stood, I could only see the blankness of his mask.
Sending the note had been my contribution to Gray’s plan. Although I had worded it carefully enough so that Lorne would not be able to use it against me, there was still the possibility that he could ignore it, or – if he choose – use it to unmask me.
Yet I was counting on him to take no such action. I was putting myself in his hands. Knowing Lorne, I doubted that he could resist such a temptation.
A moment passed and then he folded up the note, secreting it away. And to me, he raised his glass.
I slipped from the Great Hall and made my way to the stables where I crouched in a shadow cast from the palace wall.
I knew not how many times I adjusted my mask, or reached to touch the hidden blade, or jumped at the smallest whisper of noise while I waited. My senses seemed unusually sharp. The night sky was a palette of indigo but for the moon, a perfect circle framed by two of the castle turrets, casting spindly black shadows among patches of gray. In my nostrils stung the odors of wet earth, horses and hay. The breeze tingled against the skin of my hands. It was strange – waiting to kill a man, I had never felt more alive.
After what seemed an eternity of waiting, the Oak King arrived. Alone.
Hidden as I was, he did not espy me among the shadows. He took a few tentative steps, searching about. Following him with my eyes, I let my hatred fill me.
His back was to me as I stepped from the shadow. I made no attempt to silence my footsteps as I approached. A twig snapped, loud as a whip crack, below my boot, and he turned. As he turned, I plunged the knife into him.
It was fortunate that his heavy coat was open in the front, offering no resistance to my blow. The knife sank up to the hilt. Twisting it halfway out, I thrust again as Gray had instructed me, angling the blade up below his ribcage to pierce his heart.
He made only one noise – a pathetic thing halfway between a gasp and a cry. It struck me that he was dying. Killing a man was pitifully easy. I had expected there to be more blood. Mundane, perhaps – but such were my thoughts as I withdrew the knife.
Hands clutched at the wound as he wavered on his feet, sounds coloring his jagged breath. He took one staggering step towards me, arms outstretched in silent supplication, long white hands spattered with blood. Then, as if he were no more than a puppet whose puppeteer had cut the strings, he crumpled at my feet.
As the dead man hit the ground, the mask slipped out of place, and by the moonlight I clearly saw his face, and it was not the face of Lorne du Beaumont.
What happened then was strange. I did not suffer rage or sorrow; instead a calmness descended upon me, along with a silence that was pure and absolute. In that moment I had only one thought: My God, I just killed Darian du Montague.
A moment – no more, no less, yet it seemed to stretch on endlessly, an inexplicable paradox.
Then the silence was broken by the footfalls of the faithful guard as they came thundering down upon me.
Moreover, I began to question my intelligence as Darian’s face turned an alarming shade of red. Killing the son of one’s liege – even accidentally – was a terrible idea. One that led to being clamped in irons and subjected to prolonged torments at the hands of the King’s able torturers. At the least, I should have saved that comment until after he’d finished drinking. But good judgment had vanished several pints ago.
Fortunately, Darian soon ceased his sputtering. He slammed the tankard down on the table, ale sloshing, tossing back his head as he laughed heartily. His face was still flushed pink when he finally caught his breath. “Michael! I can’t believe you said that!”
I grinned down into my tankard. I certainly couldn’t be blamed for noticing the young and quite handsome new addition to the Crown Prince’s ever-present entourage. The guardsmen had followed us to the tavern, of course, but observed from the far side of the room, allowing Darian the illusion of freedom. There was no way they could have heard our conversation from that distance.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand after another swig. “Well, cousin,” I said lightly, “if my mother would stop hiring only female servants at Château du Tremontaine, then perhaps my bed wouldn’t be so empty.” I smiled slyly. “And, I must say, that new guard of yours does fill out that codpiece quite sufficiently. It leads me to speculate what else he could fill with it.”
Darian laughed again, so hard he had to cling to the table to keep from falling out of his chair. Finally he regained his composure. “Michael, you’re incorrigible.” He sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes. His expression suddenly grew grave. “If my brother-in-law ever heard you say such things...”
I grunted. The mention of Lorne du Beaumont was enough to sour anyone’s mood. Mine in particular. “Fortunately for me, then, that he resides at Château du Beaumont, far, far away.”
Darian had the bad habit of twisting a lock of his long, raven-black hair around his finger whenever he had something disagreeable to say, which is what he was doing now. “Ah. You haven’t heard the news, then.”
“Don’t tell me...”
“He’s here. With my sister.”
I groaned. “Why?”
Darian looked at me, half hazy from drink, half perplexed. “You really haven’t heard?” When I shook my head, he continued. “Ah, that’s right, you were a-hunting when it happened. There was trouble down in the slave quarters. A revolt.”
That caught me off guard. “The elves revolted?”
Darian squeezed his tankard with both hands, leaning across the table, his voice low. “It was over a fortnight ago. My father –” here Darian grimaced, “– well, you can imagine what happened.”
I shuddered. “A slaughter.”
“A slaughter.” Darian sighed, running a hand through his heavy hair before letting it fall back to his tankard. “They say the streets of the elf quarter were washed with blood. The instigators were caught, but my father considered it... prudent to summon Lorne to quell any further rebellion.”
That the elves in Ersilia were slaves was their punishment for warring – and consequently losing – against the humans. Except that the Elf Wars had been fought centuries ago, and the poor wretches now enslaved were several generations removed from the events which had merited that punishment. On the injustice of this matter, the prince and I were in accord, but we belonged to the silent minority.
I didn’t like this turn in the conversation. I forced a cheerful smile. “Well, when you take the throne, perhaps you can do something about it. Grant them a royal pardon, if you wish.”
Darian did not laugh as I expected. Instead, his face grew pale and he crossed his fingers as he tipped them towards the floor in a gesture to dispel evil. “Be careful, cousin,” he warned. “You speak too freely. If you do not learn to control your tongue, you will be drummed right out of court.”
I had drunk too much to care if I’d shocked the prince. After all, he had been my best friend since childhood, and was, in all likelihood, too deep in his cups to remember our conversation in the morning. I chuckled, then drawled, “Court, Darian? That dull place? Why, I long for the day.”
Darian sighed. “It’s late, cousin. We’ve tarried long enough.”
I realized just how drunk I was when the room spun as I near tumbled from my chair. Darian was having similar difficulty maneuvering around the table. Laughing once again and using each other for support, we staggered gracelessly out of the Silver Dragon. No doubt we made quite a spectacle of ourselves. Fortunately, disguised in our worn down boots and threadbare hooded cloaks, we easily passed for commoners in the slums.
Out in the street, it was cold, with scarce light to guide us back to the coach waiting around the corner. After the smoky lamps of the tavern, stepping outside was like being enveloped in a black velvet mantle.
What happened next was just a blur. Darian lost his footing, stumbling against a stone, dragging me along with him as his arm was still locked about my neck. As I reached out to steady us both, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a movement to our left.
A flash of silver blade cut through the dark. All at once it seemed I was shouting to Darian even as I shoved him away from me, groping for my sword. A clang of steel rang through the night as I raised my blade to meet that of the attacker. Unprepared, I staggered back, my arm numb from the fierce blow.
I saw no faces, only dark shapes of men and their advancing blades. I clumsily parried, dodged, then thrust. A weak thrust, easily turned aside, but I was not concerned about winning, instead focused on preventing them from reaching the prince.
The prince fared better than I, however. Blade drawn, he twisted away from danger like a cat, spinning to slash at his opponent. A pained yelp from below a hooded cowl confirmed a strike.
I hastened to block the blade sweeping towards my face, but my hilt became entangled in my cloak. Unseen hands pulled at my arm, causing me to trip over my own feet, and collide against a body which was not Darian’s. Then something hard cracked against the back of my head and the ground rushed up to meet me.
Stars bloomed in my vision as I sank, helpless as a worm in the dirt. There were noises, but muffled as though coming from a great distance: the musical clank of plated armor, the slither of swords, the shouts of the guards as they poured out of the tavern, the harsh kiss of steel, followed by hurried footfalls growing faint. The last thing I heard before the darkness claimed me was Darian screaming my name as his faithful guards spirited him away to safety.
...
I woke with the strands of my thoughts twisted like a cat’s cradle and slowly realized I was not dead. Although, considering the agony in my head, being dead may have been favorable.
Details of the previous night’s events were muddled. But I remembered that Darian had escaped unharmed. Convinced of the Prince’s safety, I sat up and turned to more pressing matters. The most pressing of which being that I was on a strange bed in a small, dingy room I didn’t recognize and that I wasn’t alone.
This last realization jolted me to full consciousness. There was nothing like danger to start the blood racing first thing in the morning. And the danger was clear, for the man so casually perched on the back of a chair near the window was not a man at all.
He was an elf.
Elves were not allowed freedom of movement beyond the walls of the slave quarters. If this elf were a slave, he was already a lawbreaker, and thus capable of other crimes. And if he weren’t from the elf quarter... then he posed an even greater threat.
For a moment we studied each other in silence. I do not know what the elf thought, for his expression was as blank as a moon mask.
He was a shadow, a vague outline dressed in black clothing cut in the latest Ersilian style. A dark cloak lay in a heap on the floor nearby, carelessly discarded and half covering a worn traveling pack. By the light of the window, I could make out his features plainly enough. Like a typical elf, he possessed all the aspects that court ladies longed for: slender of limb and body, eyes wide set and light in hue, a fine-boned face marked by a high forehead, a narrow nose, and full lips, all of which was crowned by an abundance of long hair shiny and fine as corn silk. The only difference between a lady’s ideal and the elf was the fact that the elf’s skin was the color of golden wheat, and that his hair was an unusual shade of silver which shone lavender in the sunlight, and that his ears, pierced through with silver clan rings, ended in fine points close to his head.
Despite the lack of color in his clothing, by the fine cut of them, along with the quality of his boots and the forbidden rings, he did not seem a slave.
My wits had recovered enough for me to realize that if the elf meant me harm, he could have easily killed me as I slept. Still, I only felt a bit more at ease when my gaze came to rest on my sword, propped against the wall near the bed, within reach.
“Who are you?” I asked. When the elf responded with stony silence, I let some temper color my tone. “What do you want from me?”
“I saved your life last night.”
I don’t know what surprised me more: his words, or the way in which he had spoken them. He had what my mother called a honey voice – one of those voices that was slow and sweet and sticky and would just get caught in your ear and make you forget your own name.
I remembered men in cloaks with long blades. There was the glint of a knife hilt in the elf’s boot, but he wore no sword. That did not mean that the elf had not been somehow involved in the skirmish. “You saved me?”
“I assure you that it was entirely unintentional.” The cold and calculating look he gave me nearly frosted my skin. “But, regardless of my intentions, there is a blood debt to be paid.”
I had no reason to trust him. And, despite any sympathy due the elves for their plight, I could not deny my duty. Montague blood flowed in my veins, and it was with the King that my loyalty lay, and the elves were still our enemy.
I lunged for my sword as I bounded from the bed. I had hoped to catch the elf off guard to disarm him, and yet, in the blink of an eye, I found myself against the wall, the sword forced from my hand and a knife pressed against my throat.
His face was still a mask, but the way his breath whistled short and rapid through his nostrils betrayed his unsteady state. He snarled stale breath into my face. “Would you like to try that again, human?” he demanded. “Or can you give me some reason to let you live?”
This close I could distinguish the color of his eyes, cold, pale amethysts, unflecked. By the look in them, I believed him capable of slitting my throat.
As we stared at each other, I considered my options. Given my disadvantage, the options were few. I sighed, resigned. “The blood debt,” I said reluctantly. “What would you have of me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Fool,” he muttered. For a moment I believed the insult was leveled at me, but he continued to murmur under his breath. “That I thought I could trust a human...”
“Then we are in the same bind. I do not trust you.”
The elf regarded me, wary. “You attacked me.”
“A poor decision, in retrospect,” I admitted. I watched the elf thinking, weighing his own options. I guessed the obvious. “You saved me for a reason.”
“If I let you go... no doubt you will bring the guard down upon my head.”
“If there is truly a blood debt between us, then I will give you my word on my honor as a knight that I will repay you,” I said, though I was quick to add, “as long as your request is reasonable.”
“Your word as a knight means little.”
“If that’s what you believe, then you know not what a knight is.”
“Oh, I know what a knight is. I know about your promises to serve God, king, and country. Your oath to protect the weak. The weak being women and children.” He sneered. “But only if they are of noble human blood.”
Under the elf’s relentless stare, I cast down my eyes. I could not deny what he said. I could only think of Lorne du Beaumont and feel ashamed to share the same rank and blood with a man such as him.
The knife suddenly withdrew. Glancing up, I saw the elf take a step back, tucking the dagger into a sheath hidden under the loose sleeve of his tunic. On his face, the same resignation I felt. Reluctantly, his gaze flickered to meet mine. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.
...
My cloak pulled tight around me, I trudged off to yet another herbalist’s shop.
In the merchant quarter, there was no need for the disguise. Still, I did not wish to risk being recognized fortuitously by a passing acquaintance. By now, word had already spread about last night’s adventure, and, all things considered, it was likely that the guard was trying to determine my whereabouts. And, though the thought of Darian worrying over me was a troubling one, I did not wish to be distracted from my task.
Although none would hold it against me were I to break my promise, I had been sincere in giving my word to the elf. In truth, I was motivated by something other than the dubious claim of a blood debt. Apart from the occasional outings incognito with Darian, life at court truly was dull. Encountering the elf had been the most interesting thing that had happened in a very long time.
The task he had set me, however, was neither dangerous nor difficult, and scant repayment for a blood debt. As if I were a mere servant girl, he’d sent me out with a list of items scratched out on a scrap of parchment. What he needed them for, he’d refused to say. Some I recognized as herbs, but the rest were unfamiliar. I had asked him if he meant to brew some magical concoction with them. Although use of magic was forbidden on the point of death, there were rumors that the elves still practiced it in secret. However, I mused, if the elves truly did possess magic, then it was too weak to do them any good.
What seemed like an easy task turned out impossible. Every shopkeeper I queried was unable to recognize all the items on the elf’s list, much less aid me in finding them. Finally admitting defeat, there was little else to do but return to the elf in the upstairs room of the inn not far from the Silver Dragon where I had left him.
My first thought upon entering the room was that the elf was gone. I didn’t realize he was standing behind me until he spoke. “Did you bring everything I need?”
Startled, I turned. His face was still a mask, but I noted a tension around his mouth. I sighed and told him how I had fared.
The elf made a small noise of disgust. “I set you a simple task, human,” he growled. “One that even a child could have managed. You’re useless.”
I bristled at the insult. Reaching into my tunic, I drew out the scrap of parchment. “Eye of bluebells? Dragon drop blood? White maiden tears?” I waved it in his face. “What are these? Ingredients for some poisonous elixir?”
The elf glared at me.
I crumpled the parchment in my fist. “If you know magic, elf, then why don’t you just cast some spell instead of wasting my time? Turn yourself invisible and take what you want. Or... or... or conjure the ingredients out of thin air!”
Anger sparked in the elf’s eyes. “You stupid human,” he growled. “You understand nothing of magic.”
“Is that so? Explain it to me, then.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You... uh... huh...”
The elf trailed off, his words turning into a groan as he suddenly pitched forward.
Instinctively I moved to catch him. Darian stumbled much when he was drunk, so I’d had years of practice. Unlike Darian, however, as my hand skimmed over his waist, the elf emitted a whimper of pain. Surprised, I slid my hand back under his ribs. This elicited another whimper as sharp nails dug into my shoulders. Lifting my hand, I saw that it was wet with blood. “You’re injured.”
The nails burrowed deeper into my flesh as the elf panted in my ear. “I’m... not... don’t... uhhh...”
Carefully I maneuvered him the three paces to the bed. Leaning over him, I wasn’t really surprised to note that the cold mask from before had completely disintegrated, that his face was a wide-eyed mix of pain and fear. “I’m going to take a look.”
The elf made a noise which I interpreted to be permission.
Peeling the tunic away from his body, I was surprised that he’d been able to hide his injury for so long. He’d been caught by the edge of some sort of blade, which had left a nasty gash that began a finger’s width from the edge of his breeches and curved all the way up to the edge of his ribs. And, worse, the wound was festering. The sick smell of it near turned my stomach. “When did this happen?”
“Last... night. While... trying to... escape.”
That it was festering this badly and so soon seemed impossible. But men knew little about elf physiology. Nonetheless, I knew that something had to be done, and quickly. “It’s bad,” I said. “It will need to be stitched shut. And you’ll need to cleanse out the wound because it’s infected.”
His hands clutched at the sheets as his face twisted in agony. “I... uh... I need...”
“You need a healer.”
“No!” He jerked in the bed, a move which then left him gasping in pain. I put my hands on his shoulders, easing him back down. Below my hands his skin was feverishly hot. “No healers.”
“If you don’t get a healer, you’ll probably die.”
I had spoken plain truth. The elf was quiet for a moment. I imagined we were thinking the same thing. A King’s Hands could save him, perhaps, were he to turn himself in, but the best he could hope for was a quick death if they believed him a runaway, rather than a slow and painful death if they believed him a spy.
Fevered, half-delirious, his eyes had taken on a glazed appearance. His honey voice had gone soft. “Eye of... bluebells. Dragon drop... blood. Need them... for a healing salve.”
I thought. “Perhaps the herbalist has something. I could go...”
“No. Human remedies will not... work.”
I leaned back with a sigh, running a hand through my tangled hair, trying to think, and half-hoping that the elf wasn’t going to suggest what I suspected he was going to suggest. And, of course, he did.
“You have to go... there. Find... Grandmother Clock. Tell her... it’s for me.”
I didn’t have to ask where “there” was. And I didn’t bother to ask where to find this “Grandmother Clock.” But there was one other problem. “I don’t even know your name.”
The pale eyes closed. Lying still, he looked almost peacefully asleep. But then he sighed softly. “Gray.”
“Well, Gray,” I said. “Do you really think I can just waltz in ‘there’ and get what you need?”
He answered without opening his eyes. “Of course,” he said softly. “Because you... are Sir Michael the Fair.”
...
The streets of the elf quarter were unusually quiet.
At one time, the elf quarter had been the poorer part of town, so it had never been a luxurious or beautiful place. Hundreds of years later, though, it was a shadow even of the slums. Roads and buildings were in disrepair, statues and archways eroded by time, stone and wood sun-bleached. Other than the people who lived here, all colors were variations on gray.
Gray. An odd name for an elf, and probably an alias. He had not revealed to me how he knew my name, and I had not pressed him. Instead, I had set my concerns aside and had hastened to the elf quarter.
Despite the lack of activity in the streets, I managed to find Grandmother Clock with ease by asking the first elf I found. He led me to a small hovel at the end of the street, where a silver-haired elf cautiously listened to my plea. Within moments, I had procured the rest of the ingredients for Gray’s balm.
In my haste, I had not considered the price of this exchange. In the elf quarters, coin was worthless. Foodstuffs would have been considerably welcome, yet I had nothing but my purse, my blade, and the clothes on my back.
I offered my cloak. Although threadbare, it would be treasured here, particularly with winter coming soon. She took it with a faint smile, and I was out on the streets again, more puzzled than before.
I was certain that Grandmother Clock had recognized Gray’s name. And yet, if he were not a runaway slave, then there was no logical reason for her to know him. That my own name was recognized by the elves was no surprise. Although the elves were forbidden to leave the quarter without a work permit, men were free to come and go as they pleased. The first time Darian and I had ventured here, we had been motivated by boyish curiosity. Seeing the miserable conditions in which the elves were forced to live, however, our interest in their fate had evolved. To keep abreast of the situation here, Darian used me as his eyes and ears. Later he set me the task of distributing much needed goods – food, clothing, blankets and the like. Not allowed to reveal the Prince’s name, I had developed the reputation as generous benefactor among the elves.
I was nearly at the gate when I heard the screams.
A small rational part of me thought to turn away. If the King’s guard were here, I had little reason to interfere. Furthermore, if the Prince had given orders to have me seized, there would be nothing I could do to keep the guard from dragging me back to the castle. And yet, even as I thought this, my feet were drawing me towards the sound.
Turning the corner, I found the source. Two guardsmen held a female elf between them, laughing viciously as they played a cruel tug-of-war with her limbs. Another elf was being dragged from a hovel by her golden hair, her clothing in tatters. Within the hovels, hideous screams mingled with telling grunts. Along the street stood more guardsmen, the sun beating down on the glistening white enamel and steel scale of their armor, as red blood dripped from their blades.
In the shadows I glimpsed the children, torn from their mothers’ skirts, and the sight of them, more than anything else, filled me with rage.
I strode forward, my hand itching over the pommel of my sword, speaking with my father’s voice. “What in God’s name is going on here?”
It was a voice that roared, that voice of the Duke of Tremontaine. One that permitted no disobedience. At the sound of it, all who stood before me cringed. All was quiet but for the soft sobbing of an elf as she slumped to the ground.
The soldiers stared at me. One murmured my name. And then, as if a signal had been silently sounded, the soldiers’ eyes turned towards a man whose back was to me.
He was a tall man, slender-bodied, narrow hipped, but broad of shoulder, wearing a long coat of embroidered red velvet, down which coursed a river of heavy black hair captured by a loosely tied red ribbon. I had not expected to see him here. “Darian?”
As he turned, my heart sank. It was not Darian at all.
It was Lorne du Beaumont.
I cursed myself for my error even as Lorne approached me, wearing a creamy smile not dissimilar to the one that a cat wears as it traps a mouse beneath its paw. “Sir Michael. What a pleasant surprise. Come to enjoy the festivities?”
“Sir Lorne,” I said in polite acknowledgment. “What are you doing here?”
“Quelling the rebellion,” he said. His gaze swept over me as his fingers twitched artlessly around the lace cuffs of his sleeves. “You know, cousin, I was about to ask you the same thing. Running around the elf quarter, with all the trouble that’s been going on... what were you thinking?”
I knew what Lorne thought of me. At best, a foolish courtier. I threw myself into the role by giving him my haughtiest smile. “I was bored, really,” I drawled, and then sighed. “All this talk at court about the revolt. Well. I decided to see for myself what all the fuss was about.”
Again the dark-lashed green eyes swept over me, assessing. “I suppose matters of state would be boring to someone like you,” he said, trying to bait me. I did not rise to take it, so he continued. “Well, since you are here... perhaps we can devise some entertainment for you.”
I suppressed a shudder at the thought of Lorne’s idea of “entertainment.” As a boy, he had taken great delight in tormenting small animals before moving on to serving girls, wenches, and numerous other victims. As to the nature of Lorne’s torments, I knew them all too well.
Before I could form a polite refusal and make my excuses to slip away, Lorne snapped his fingers at the nearest guard, who scuttled towards us, dragging an elf girl by the arm. Gracefully, Lorne seized the girl, tearing her shift, then thrust her towards me, holding her at arm’s length. An offering.
An elf’s age was hard for humans to judge, but the girl seemed precisely that. On a small frame, her budding breasts quivered as Lorne twisted her spine. Over her shoulder, Lorne smiled at me as though he were offering me a dram of tea. “Does this one please you, cousin?” he purred. “I assure you, she’s scarcely been used.”
As the guards laughed, I bit my tongue. Lorne had always been adept at playing the swaggering braggart among the soldiers, but I was in no mood to participate in that game.
He stepped forward, trailing one gloved finger across the girl’s cheek. “She is a rose, cousin, ripe for the plucking. Does she not set your blood on fire and your staff at attention?” Lorne paused as the guards laughed again. I remained silent. Lorne looked at the girl, then his eyes met mine. “Of course if she’s not to your taste, perhaps we could find you a pretty little elf boy to take behind the stables?”
In those words, a memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old again, the victim in Lorne’s sadistic game. My tongue had still been between my teeth, and now I tasted blood and bitter rage. I hated Lorne du Beaumont with a hatred I had not known I possessed. I wanted to kill him.
I wanted to kill him. But I could not. With the scrap of self-control that still remained, I smiled at Lorne and spoke through gritted teeth. “Not at all, Lorne. I am merely not interested. The elves, they’re so dirty. Probably diseased, as well. Truly, I find the idea of even touching one quite distasteful.”
Lorne studied me for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself, Sir Michael.”
In all haste, I took my leave. Though I still felt ill, my breathing had steadied by the time I reached the gate. I was halfway to the slums before my rage finally abated. And it was only when I passed by the Silver Dragon did I recall the words Gray had spoken about a knight’s oath to protect the weak, and I did not favor myself very much in that moment.
...
I forgot all about Lorne and my self-pity when the elf damned me to hell.
After the damning, he heaped insults upon me. The insults were followed by an impressive string of curses – some of them new to me and colorful enough to make a hardened soldier blush. And, finally, once he had run out of curses I could understand, he hissed and screamed in what I presumed to be his native elfin tongue.
I could not blame him. The gash was long and the bone needle thick and the pain must have been excruciating. His cursing and insults did not distract me from the task of sewing him back together. However, his constant thrashing did.
I lost my patience. “I cannot fix you if you don’t hold still!”
Gray muttered a feeble curse.
Sighing, I rubbed my fingers, stiff from holding the needle so tightly. “Listen, Gray,” I said. “We are halfway through the stitching. I cannot continue like this. I must insist. The binding or the elfweed. Choose.”
An hour had passed since my return from the elf quarters. In that time, I had tended to Gray, cleaning his wound, preparing and then applying the healing balm. None of it had been pleasant, but he had borne it well enough. When the moment of the stitching arrived, however, I had suggested he allow me to bind him to the bed. Or that he ingest the elfweed I had brought.
That Gray had refused both did not surprise me. Although he needed me, there was not enough trust between us that he would agree to being bound. The same applied to the elfweed.
Elfweed was used for two reasons. For one, it dulled an elf’s senses and kept him submissive. Second, it was quite effective in banishing both pain and fatigue, thus an injured or exhausted slave could be made to work longer and harder. Elfweed was the elves’ version of man’s poppy. And, like the poppy, an elf who was given too much elfweed soon developed a sickness for it. This sickness was so common that it had earned the nickname “the weed demon.”
Gray grew still and his breathing slowed as I waited for his answer. Pale and exhausted, he seemed halfway across death’s threshold. He stared at me for a long time. Finally he squeezed his eyes shut, making a strange little noise, and when he spoke, his voice was faint. “The elfweed.”
It was a good choice – for me at least. Once the elfweed had taken effect, I was able to finish the stitching in no time, and I was certain that the patient no longer felt a thing. Soon I had knotted the thread into place, applied some more balm, and loosely bandaged his wound.
I had been sitting on the edge of the bed and was about to rise when his hand upon my arm stopped me. His voice floated up from far away. “Arisal...”
I looked down at Gray. The elfweed had left his body limp and his eyes heavy-lidded. The previous tension had drained from his face, leaving it smooth like porcelain. With his mouth slack and his strange silvery hair spilling across the bed, he reminded me of a woodcut of a most beautiful dying mermaid in a book I’d owned as a child.
“Who’s Arisal?” I asked. An elfin name, male. He did not reply. His hand remained on my arm. Though, given the amount of elfweed I’d shoveled into him, I was certain he had just forgotten it was there.
This thought led to another. An unfair thought, to be sure, but, given the situation, I had no reason to be fair. “Gray? May I ask you a question?”
His eyelids, already heavy, drooped. He made a small non-committal hum.
“Tell me. How did you know my name?”
That honey voice of his was soft and dreamy. “Hmm? Oh. All the elves... know of you...”
“The elves in the slave quarter know of me. You’re not a slave. Where are you from?”
“From... Sithcythril.”
The way he spoke it, in a whisper like a caress, his voice accent-thick, I near didn’t recognize the word. But it was a name I knew well from the history books. Sithcythril: from whence the elfin army swooped down on their demon steeds in an unholy crusade against the Montagues. Sithcythril: seat of an ancient kingdom, and home to the free elves of the world. Sithcythril: a name forbidden to speak, so that even the elfin slaves called it, as the common people did, Elfland.
“You’re far from home, then. Why are you in Ersilia?”
“Sent here... a contract...”
“What sort of contract?”
One amethyst eye cracked open briefly, then closed again. “You ask... too many questions.”
“I’m a very curious man,” I said. Elfweed did much to loosen an elf’s inhibitions, but as a serum of truth-telling, it was not always reliable. I studied Gray, thinking about how expertly he had disarmed me, how quick to draw the knife, and the murder I had read in his eyes. Although I did not want to hear the answer, I asked the question all the same. “Gray, this contract... are you an assassin?”
The eyelid flickered again. Gray grunted softly. “You’re too curious,” came his hazy voice. “Now... leave me alone.”
“Fine,” I replied lightly. “Just as long as it wasn’t me you were sent to kill.”
“No... not you.”
It took me a moment to fully understand the implications of those words. If not me, then... well, then someone else. I was not certain if I wanted to know the name of the assassin’s victim. I was far too involved with the elf as it was. On the other hand, Gray’s presence outside the Silver Dragon last night, at the very moment in which Darian and I were attacked, was suspicious. If I had believed that Darian was the elf’s target, I would have slain him on the spot.
I did not believe it. I remembered the hands which had pulled me out of harm’s way. The elf had saved me. If Darian had been his target, he would have gained a perfect opportunity to kill him were I to have died before the guard’s arrival.
At the end of my silent debate, I decided it would be better to know. “Gray?”
My only response was Gray’s quiet breath. While I was wavering in indecision, Gray’s hand had slipped from my arm, down to the bed. The elfin assassin was asleep.
...
I spent the following days nursing Gray back to health.
Other than taking leave for provisions or to avail myself of the public baths, I spent most of that time in the room. The elf passed the days asleep or in an elfweed haze. The former was rather dull, yet no more boring than court, but the latter was interesting indeed.
Although I wouldn’t have said so to him, I preferred the drugged, submissive version of the elf better than the tough, menacing one. In that unfeeling state, he spoke freely, responding to most of my questions. Certain ones he refused to answer – such as his age. Elves did not age as humans did, showing their years on their faces, and for this it was once believed they were immortal. The silvered hair was the only indication I had, and I supposed him the age of my father.
Despite the fact that much of what he revealed was vague, I was fascinated by his fairy tale like accounts of Sithcythril, the free elves, and magic. Not all elves could do magic. Only those gifted were permitted to train with the wizards. The wizards also served the purpose of reading a child’s gifts at birth, an act which determined his or her fate. Gray’s gifts were known as the “triple dark.” Those born with this rare combination were given the name “shadow children” and trained as spies, assassins, and concubines.
That a male had been trained in the pleasure arts intrigued more than his training as a spy and assassin concerned me. In Ersilia, those were common enough. Even the King had his own reserve of assassins, referred to as a “necessary evil.” Although the noble houses were all bound by blood, our history was replete with usurping brothers, uncles, sons, and, on one occasion, at least, a tenacious second cousin.
For four days I tended him, conversed with him, and told him tales from Ersilian history which seemed to amuse him, as much as anyone in an elfweed haze could be amused. And in that time, in our private pigeonhole, a tenuous trust built up between us.
Reality crashed into the pigeonhole on the fifth day.
On the morning of the fifth day I had gone, as was my habit, to the baker’s for sticky buns, then to the Silver Dragon where the tavernkeep’s wife would sell me a dram of strongly-brewed black tea, and carry all back to the inn. Gray was usually asleep when I returned, but on this morning he was awake, and lucid.
He refused the usual elfweed but accepted the offer of tea. With my help, he managed to sit up in bed and take the cup, though he held it unsteadily with both hands.
I sat down in the room’s only chair and watched as Gray slowly raised the cup to his lips. I chuckled at the sour expression he made. He scowled down into the cup as though its contents had insulted him. “What is this?”
“It’s tea,” I said. “The same tea you’ve been drinking for days, in fact.”
Gray’s look was skeptical.
“Well, it’s all we have, so drink up. It’s certainly strong enough to put some much-needed hair on your chest.”
“Elves don’t have hair on their chests,” he mumbled, but drank the tea anyway.
The sticky buns, soft and still warm from the oven, were good at least. We gobbled every crumb, washing them down with the rest of the tea. Then I set the cups aside and turned to consider the elf.
Amethyst eyes met mine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
In truth, I had been wondering at the fact that, after four days bedridden with no comb in sight, in that long abundance of silk hair not a single tangle appeared. My own was the impossibly thick mop of unruly black curls typical of the nobility, and I felt a pang of envy. And I had... well, in all truth, I had been wondering how it would feel to run my fingers through those luscious, silvery strands.
Instead, I said, “I should look at your stitches.”
He leaned back as I knelt before him, unwinding the bandages. Carefully I prodded the edge of his wound. Gray made a small hiss of pain, but otherwise remained still, which I took as a promising sign. Though not completely healed, the previous swelling had diminished and there was no longer any sign of infection.
Next I fetched the healing salve and fresh bandages. Meticulously I applied the salve to the wound and at the edges of each stitch. Examining them again, it struck me that the elf had healed quickly, and that stitches could come out in a few days.
My eyes and hands were focused on the task, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Without raising my eyes, I asked, “Gray? Who is Arisal?”
There was a pause before he spoke. “I said his name?”
With surprise, I looked up at him. “You don’t remember?”
Gray sighed, lifting a hand to rub his face. “No. I remember.” His mouth tightened. By his expression I could see his quiet struggle. And the clear pain there made me sorry I had asked.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s just...” He twisted each of his clan rings before lowering his hand to the bed. “He was my son.”
I drew back, wiping the traces of the sticky balm from my fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Gray laughed, a dry, hollow and pained sound. “You can’t understand. No one can understand how it feels to lose a child. Not unless he has lost one himself. Only then...”
“How did he die?”
Gray’s voice was flat. “He was killed.”
I knew not what to say. What could one say in the face of such tragedy? Also, his revelation had surprised me. I had not expected an assassin to have a family. Perhaps he had other children waiting for him in Sithcythril. A wife.
I felt like a fool.
Gray sighed. “Michael. Please. Let’s talk about something else.”
None of what he had revealed changed how it felt to have that honey voice wrapped around my name. It was like a caress, like wax melting below a flame. It rankled me how he could do that so easily, unaware. “Certainly,” I said, using my courtier voice – airy and indifferent. “Why don’t we talk about your contract, then? Who are you supposed to kill?”
He studied me, his expression guarded. “Why are you asking me this now?”
I shrugged, then picked up the bandages, retuning to my task. “Perhaps I wanted to give you the chance to have a clear head when I asked.”
Gray was quiet as I wound the bandages around him. I was certain that he was not going to answer, but then he did, in a tone both soft and deadly.
“He must pay.”
I leaned back on my heels. “Who must pay?” I asked, though one thing was clear: only the wealthy could afford an assassin’s high price. And the victims were rarely commoners. “What nobleman? What House?”
Gray, silent, did not meet my gaze.
I thought I’d put all previous doubts to rest, yet now they surfaced. I snapped at him. “Why?”
Gray stared down at his own hands, pale-knuckled, twisting the sheets. It wasn’t so much that he spoke as forced out the bitter words. “He must pay... for what he did to the elves.”
I had an epiphany. It seemed to me that my heart ceased to beat, and that the space in my head had suddenly grown too large, making me dizzy. I choked on a weak laugh. Gray’s head jerked up, and on his face an expression of surprise.
“I know who you must kill,” I said. “It’s Lorne du Beaumont.”
...
Scarcely were the words out of my mouth that I took my leave. Abruptly.
I could not stay in the room, yet I could not go home. My arrival at Château du Tremontaine would be unexpected. Once I had made my decision to tend the elf, I had written to my mother to inform her that I would be staying with a friend until the Winter Masque, and had paid an urchin to deliver it.
Without a destination, I wandered the streets, my thoughts tumbling like acrobats. I hated Lorne du Beaumont. I had even wished him dead. But despite my feelings, Lorne was still of noble blood, husband to my cousin, and son-in-law to my liege, the King. To allow him to be murdered in cold blood would be treason.
To murder him in any blood would be a community service.
I passed the day with inner turmoil as my only company. It took me some time to admit, even to myself, that much of that turmoil was caused by the fact that Gray, injured, had little chance to succeed. In his current state, he could barely walk, much less kill a man. And time was running out – Lorne would be returning home long before Gray’s injuries healed. These thoughts also troubled me and I struggled to convince myself to the contrary. There was scant reason for me to help him. The blood debt had been sufficiently repaid when I saved his life. He was little more than a stranger. He was an assassin. He was merely an elf.
That last thought surprised me. My father’s voice again, but in my head where it did not belong. “Merely” was not apt to describe Gray. Despite the dulling effects of the elfweed, there had been hints of a keen intelligence and sharp wit below the haze. That he was an assassin spoke little of his character – a decision made for him at his birth.
It was after a third pint of ale in a tavern at the edge of town that I finally resigned myself to the possession of this knowledge.
When I entered the room, Gray was sitting in the bed with his back to the wall and his legs drawn up, a dagger ready in his hand. Recognizing me, his face flooded with relief. Seeing that clear need I suddenly felt bad for having abandoned him for so long. Outside, daylight was already waning.
In silence, Gray watched as I pulled out the feast I’d brought: meat pies, honeycakes, cheese, fruit, a jug of wine. He did not speak until we were halfway through the meal. “I didn’t think you would come back.”
“I almost didn’t.”
We spoke no more as we ate. After, I cleared away the crumbs, set aside the remaining honeycakes for the morning, and poured us each some wine. Then I withdrew the final item from my sack: a deck of cards. Sitting down on the bed opposite Gray, I shuffled the cards and began to deal them out.
Gray cocked his head. “What are you doing?”
I set the deck on the space between us and turned four cards face up. “I’m teaching you how to play Spit.”
The elf looked at me, clearly puzzled. “It sounds unsanitary,” he decided. “Why?”
I gestured at him to pick up the hand I’d dealt him. “Because that’s what men do when they need a distraction from the harshness of life. They drink and play cards.”
Gray gave me a skeptical look, but picked up his cards.
I spent some time teaching him how to play. In Spit, there were a lot of trump cards, but Gray memorized them quickly. Once he had a grasp of the rules, we played a few rounds open-handed and then I reshuffled the deck.
“What kind of game is this?” he asked as I dealt the first round.
“The kind that’s played in taverns. Normally, the loser must drink. The game ends when the players pass out. Given your condition, however, I suggest a different penalty.”
“Such as?”
“The loser must answer any question of the winner’s choosing. Truthfully.”
Gray’s eyes glittered with interest as he considered my proposal. Then his lips curled into a cunning smile. “I agree.”
...
We played cards until late in the night, and thus it was near midday when I woke. I left the honeycakes for Gray and decided to break my fast after a visit to the public baths.
Upon my return, I found Gray out of bed. Using the wall for support, he was slowly inching around the room. Given his expression, either the movement pained him or his mood was just foul, so I spoke cautiously. “Gray? Have you eaten yet? I brought you some tea. There’s some honey in it this time. And what are you doing?”
“I’m sick of being in that bed,” he said. “I need to get up and move around to regain my strength.”
“I was always told that a sick man had to stay in bed to regain his strength.”
“I’m not a man,” Gray muttered.
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to reopen your wound. In fact, you could make it worse. And don’t expect me to be able to stuff all your guts back in if they happen to fall out.”
He snorted. “You sound like a nursemaid.”
“I thought elves didn’t have nursemaids.”
“No, but you told me all about yours during that silly game last night.” He shifted his hand against the wall, the other thoughtfully twisting the rings in his ear. “Do all humans spill their secrets as easily as you do? If so, that would make my job much simpler.”
The quip on my tongue dissolved as a knock came at the door.
Gray and I both froze. Judging that he would not be seen from the hall where he stood, I gestured at him to stay still, then I moved to the door, opening it a crack.
A young boy thrust a folded bit of parchment at me. I recognized him as being the same boy I had sent to deliver the letter to my mother a few days ago. “Letter for you, Sir Michael.”
Having sent the boy away with a coin, I sat down on the chair, turning the folded square of parchment over in my hands. I recognized Darian’s elegant script even before I broke his seal.
The letter was brief. After his apologies for having left me in the fray came a severe chastising for my subsequent disappearance and causing him concern. This was followed by his relief the next day when his brother-in-law informed the court of my presence in the elf quarter. Then he finished the letter with a demand that I tell him everything at the Winter Masque tomorrow night, which I was obligated to attend.
Below the decadent slant of his signature, he had added in postscript a clever insinuation about my new “friend” and his codpiece that caused me to laugh.
If only... I thought.
“Must be amusing that letter.”
I looked at Gray. He had arrived at the window and was leaning against the frame, looking out. He had swept up all his hair and was holding it aloft, revealing the bones of the long, delicate nape of his neck.
I had a sudden vision of myself rising from the chair, crossing the room, and kissing the back of Gray’s elegant neck. So vivid was this vision, I could feel the heat of his body to mine, and taste his skin on my lips.
Gray turned to meet my eyes. For a moment he stared at me as if puzzled.
I promptly folded up the letter, tucking it into my tunic. “Shall we play cards?”
For the rest of the day we played, stopping only to sup. Instead of playing Spit again, I taught him Devil’s Maw, another tavern game, and Queen’s Knight, a game popular at court. Although we did converse, Gray did not ask me about the letter. Nor did we speak of Lorne du Beaumont.
Instead, as we played, we philosophized about truth, love and beauty, recited what poetry we knew in our respective tongues, recreated the Elf Wars with our words, and talked at length about food. Also, as we played, I would often catch him casting me a strange, questing look that I could not decipher and he would not explain. And then the hour grew late.
I set aside the cards, put out the lamp, and stretched out on my usual place on the floor. Yet I could not sleep, thinking about the Winter Masque. I had made no arrangements for my costume, but it was probable that my mother had arranged it months ago. I would have to go home then to change before heading to court. I would have to remember to leave Gray enough provisions before I left. I would have to –
Gray’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Sleeping like that – it can’t be comfortable.”
I leaned up on my elbow and looked to the bed. I could just barely make out his face by the moonlight coming through the window. “It’s not, but you’re the injured one, so you get the bed.”
I heard the sound of sheets sliding as Gray shifted over. “There’s enough room for two.”
I considered his offer. I was too tempted to accept it. “That isn’t a good idea,” I said. “You don’t know... what I am.”
“I know what you are.”
I was certain that he had misunderstood me. I tried again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know what I’m asking.”
I frowned. “Gray...”
“I was trained in all the sexual delights,” he murmured invitingly. “Would you like me to show them to you?”
A shiver ran through me. Suddenly I understood the meaning of that look he had been giving me all day. That honey voice got all caught up in my ear, making my thoughts impossible and sticky. Before I knew it I was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over Gray, looking down into those strange, elfin eyes.
His light hand danced over my face, then my lips, moving as if sketching out a magical spell of aching and longing. Then his hand trailed down my chest, slender fingers expertly unknotting the laces on my shift as they traveled, exploring.
In a moment of clarity, I moved to stay his hands with my own. “You’re injured.”
His eyes were like smoke. A seductive smile played upon his lips as his hands curled up around my shoulders. His voice was a teasing caress. “I’m not that injured,” he said, and pulled me down to the bed.
...
There was a painstaking care to what we did that night. Yet his skill was such that those acts were no less the pleasurable for it, and each delight he showed me hinted at the possibility of even greater pleasures yet to be revealed.
I didn’t know if the thought of what he could do were he uninjured alarmed or intrigued me. Entangled in his velvet limbs as his sweat cooled on my skin and night drew to an end, I only knew the truth in my heart.
“Gray,” I swore, “I will be your blade. I will kill Lorne du Beaumont.”
...
I arrived late at the Winter Masque.
From past experience I knew that preparations for the Winter Masque had been taking place for days. The Great Hall was lit with both torches and lanthorns, festooned with the last of the season’s flowers, painted silk banners fluttered from the ceiling beams, and the floors had been cleared of rushes for dancing. In one corner a miniature village made of corn husks had been constructed to delight the young, and there was music, food, and drink in abundance for all.
I arrived late enough that most of the revelers were deep in their cups, and the more promiscuous members of the court were occupied with flirting their way into a reckless tryst. My arrival thus garnered little attention, as intended.
Earlier that afternoon, Gray had told me of his plan. Costumed, the assassin would attend the Masque, lure his target to a shadowy place to kill him, and then slip away in the night. I had thought it an impossibly simple plan until he unraveled all its details before my eyes.
It would begin, he said, by walking through the palace gate.
The Long Night was celebrated by all Ersilians in the same manner, with feasting, dancing, and costumes. The only difference between the commoners and the nobility was the amount of excess. At the castle, everything was far more elaborate, particularly the costumes. It was a long-standing tradition in court that each year’s costume not only outshine everyone else’s, but outshine one’s own costume from previous Masques. In fact it was common that the day after the Winter Masque, certain court ladies – and quite a few lords – would begin planning the costume for the following year’s festival.
There were no invitations required to attend. In fact, the costume served to hide the identity of every guest. Anyone could gain entrance simply by appearing at the gate in an appropriately decadent masque.
When I expressed my skepticism, Gray instructed me to open his pack. Reaching in, my fingers touched upon something soft, and I pulled it out.
Feathers had been in vogue at court of late, so much so that Darian had amused me with a quip about the sorry lot of so many bald birds in Ersilia, so the robe I pulled from Gray’s pack was thus the height of fashion. Long, green feathers, deepening in hue, swept from the collar down to the floor. More feathers adorned the hood, framed with the eyes of peacock tails. The sleeves and collar were trimmed in cloth-of-gold, with tiny roses stitched in silver thread. It was exquisite. Exquisite, too, was the face mask, painted gold, with hooded eyes and jutting down to the chin, hinting at a bird’s beak. Soft boots the same color gold as the mask completed the ensemble.
The last thing Gray did before I took my leave was to fasten the sheath of his hidden knife on my arm, and teach me how to draw it without catching the loose sleeve of the feathered robe.
In this disguise would I need to find Lorne and lure him to his death. Except, as I quite bluntly pointed out to Gray, he would also be disguised, and thus, it would be impossible for me to recognize him.
To that, Gray smiled a strange little enigmatic smile. “You must kill the Oak King.”
Using legends was a common theme at the Masques, and I did not question the fact that Lorne would choose such an ancient, powerful, and blatantly virile god as his masque. I did, however, question Gray’s method of acquiring this information. A costume for the festival was a coveted secret, revealed only at the end of the Masque itself.
Gray sneered. “Whose hands do you think stitched every feather of your cloak until they bled? Elven hands, Michael. Who do you think breaks their backs tilling your fields, building your walls, and polishing the floors of your halls? Who cooks your food, scrubs your chamberpots, and spreads their legs for the nobles’ lust? Elves, Michael. Whose ears hear all your dirty secrets and lies because you think them deaf and dumb and unworthy of your notice?” His eyes flashed murder. “And who washed the streets of the elf quarter with the blood of the innocent? Raped our wives and murdered our children? Men.”
His venom shocked me. “Gray! I’m on your side.”
The hatred drained from his expression. He hung his head, staring at the cup of tea trembling in his hands. “I know that,” he said softly. “I know you’re different. That’s why I...”
He trailed off suddenly, leaving me in an anxious state. I could sense the import of the words he’d left unspoken. And yet, a part of me did not want to hear them. Not when a missing piece of the puzzle had just clicked into place. “You saw it, didn’t you? You were there during the slaughter.”
Gray explained. He had been hiding in the elf quarter for months, plotting and making his arrangements. Where better for an elf to hide than among elves? But he refused to speak of the horrors he had seen, and I had not pressed him.
Instead I had gone home to fetch the costume my mother had arranged. Once Lorne was dead, I was to quickly change from the feathered cloak into the other costume, at which point “Sir Michael” would make his appearance, and the “assassin” would have disappeared.
Having entered the Palace, I had stashed Sir Michael’s costume in a dark niche near the Great Hall – a particularly good place I’d often used when Darian and I had played hide and seek. Then I made my way into the Great Hall, and cast about my gaze.
I saw him across the room, conversing with a woman all in white, a silver goblet held casually aloft in one hand. He wore a long coat of green velvet, craftily adorned with leaves and twigs. More leaves were entwined in his long black hair, falling loose about his face fully covered by a deer-horned mask of brown leather.
I stopped a servant and bid her deliver a note to the Oak King.
I watched as he took the note, unfolded it, and read it. Upon the note I had written:
Cousin,
I must speak to you urgently about a private matter.
I will await you at the next hour strike behind the stables.
Tell no one.
M
He lowered his hand and directed a question at the serving girl. Following her gesture with his eyes, he found me. For a moment he looked at me as if puzzled. Or rather, I imagined his puzzlement – from where I stood, I could only see the blankness of his mask.
Sending the note had been my contribution to Gray’s plan. Although I had worded it carefully enough so that Lorne would not be able to use it against me, there was still the possibility that he could ignore it, or – if he choose – use it to unmask me.
Yet I was counting on him to take no such action. I was putting myself in his hands. Knowing Lorne, I doubted that he could resist such a temptation.
A moment passed and then he folded up the note, secreting it away. And to me, he raised his glass.
I slipped from the Great Hall and made my way to the stables where I crouched in a shadow cast from the palace wall.
I knew not how many times I adjusted my mask, or reached to touch the hidden blade, or jumped at the smallest whisper of noise while I waited. My senses seemed unusually sharp. The night sky was a palette of indigo but for the moon, a perfect circle framed by two of the castle turrets, casting spindly black shadows among patches of gray. In my nostrils stung the odors of wet earth, horses and hay. The breeze tingled against the skin of my hands. It was strange – waiting to kill a man, I had never felt more alive.
After what seemed an eternity of waiting, the Oak King arrived. Alone.
Hidden as I was, he did not espy me among the shadows. He took a few tentative steps, searching about. Following him with my eyes, I let my hatred fill me.
His back was to me as I stepped from the shadow. I made no attempt to silence my footsteps as I approached. A twig snapped, loud as a whip crack, below my boot, and he turned. As he turned, I plunged the knife into him.
It was fortunate that his heavy coat was open in the front, offering no resistance to my blow. The knife sank up to the hilt. Twisting it halfway out, I thrust again as Gray had instructed me, angling the blade up below his ribcage to pierce his heart.
He made only one noise – a pathetic thing halfway between a gasp and a cry. It struck me that he was dying. Killing a man was pitifully easy. I had expected there to be more blood. Mundane, perhaps – but such were my thoughts as I withdrew the knife.
Hands clutched at the wound as he wavered on his feet, sounds coloring his jagged breath. He took one staggering step towards me, arms outstretched in silent supplication, long white hands spattered with blood. Then, as if he were no more than a puppet whose puppeteer had cut the strings, he crumpled at my feet.
As the dead man hit the ground, the mask slipped out of place, and by the moonlight I clearly saw his face, and it was not the face of Lorne du Beaumont.
What happened then was strange. I did not suffer rage or sorrow; instead a calmness descended upon me, along with a silence that was pure and absolute. In that moment I had only one thought: My God, I just killed Darian du Montague.
A moment – no more, no less, yet it seemed to stretch on endlessly, an inexplicable paradox.
Then the silence was broken by the footfalls of the faithful guard as they came thundering down upon me.
